


Candlelight

by Aldebarana



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: 1940s, BAMF Hermione Granger, Duelling, F/M, Hogwarts Social Life, Knights of Walpurgis, On Hiatus, Slow Burn, Time Travel, tomione - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-11
Updated: 2019-10-09
Packaged: 2020-04-24 18:12:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 6
Words: 25,277
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19178704
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aldebarana/pseuds/Aldebarana
Summary: Hermione Granger - Tom Riddle'You probably shouldn't have come here.''Probably.'His eyes hardened as she attempted to push him off, but she stilled  abruptly when he pressed his wand to her throat.'Are you going to hurt me Riddle? How very uncivilized of you.''I'm afraid you leave too many unanswered questions, Eversons, for me to still be concerned with civilities.'___________________________________________________________________________During the Winter Holidays of her sixth year, Hermione accidentally travels back in time to half a century earlier. Alone and stranded in France, she manages to make her way back to Hogwarts, where, with the help of Albus Dumbledore, she tries to find her way back to her own era. But there is a young Dark Lord at school, and he has taken an unhealthy interest in this strange new student.





	1. A trip to France

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first attempt at writing fanfiction so let’s see how this goes  
> Enjoy xx

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> French translations are at the bottom :)

"Merry Christmas, Harry."  Hermione gave him a quick hug. From where she stood she could see a flash of red hair and she glared venomously at the embracing couple. Although she highly doubted that  _he_  even noticed;  _ he _was somewhat occupied with other things, namely saying a very non-verbal goodbye to Lavender Brown. 

_ You’re not supposed to care_ , she reminded herself fiercely, turning away from the scene.

"Hermione."

She focused her attention back on Harry, smiling sheepishly.

"Yes?" He sighed, running a hand through his eternally messy hair.

"You weren’t listening," he said accusingly. From across the station Mrs Weasely waved her arms, calling him over. They watched her for a few seconds and Harry sighed once more.

"Take care, ‘Mione," he said, giving her a quick peck on the cheek. 

"Owl me?" she called as he walked away, pushing his trolley. Hedwig hooted happily from her cage. 

"Of course," he promised. "I have to send you your presents  _somehow_ ."

Hermione watched, smiling slightly, as he pushed his way through the chattering families over to where the Weasleys were standing. George caught her eye and winked, and she lifted a hand in acknowledgement. Pushing down a sudden feeling of sadness, she picked up her ridiculously heavy trunk and scanned the crowd. The steam parted suddenly, revealing two familiar figures, and Hermione went to join her family.

As soon as she was home, she hurriedlyunpacked all of her wizard-related belongings, only to immediately start on preparing another suitcase. Hermione’s parents had long decided that their only daughter should experience the wonders of the French Alps, but they had found their endeavors to be thus far unsuccessful; in past years she had either been too young or too 'busy' to accompany them. They had thought that the previous Christmas would be the one, until, to their dismay, their skiing holiday was cut short due to unfortunate, and, as yet, unexplained circumstances. They were determined that this year they would succeed.

In record time, the family was fully packed and squashed into Mr Granger’s comfortable new Volkswagen (the Grangers prided themselves on their efficiency). Hermione was soon asleep, exhausted by her long day. She missed her parents’ excited commentary on the efficiency of the new Channel Tunnel as they made their way to France. The countryside was dark by the time they drove past Paris, and still she slept on.

She was shaken awake by Helen Granger several hours later; they were stopping for the night in a small town on the outskirts of Reims. Despite her drowsy state, her heart leapt in excitement; this particular stop was by her own, personal, request.

The inn they were staying at was small, shabby, and had evidently seen better days. Hermione was left to sleep in her own room, and she basked in the silence. Sharing a dormitory with four girls could be a bit of a bother at times, especially when complaints prevented her from reading most nights. She was much too tired to read though, so her new-found solitude was hardly advantageous.

Early the next morning, after eating a light breakfast, she ventured out into the town. The frosty air drew her breath in a pale cloud and she shivered, wrapping her coat tighter around her. The street was lit only by the flat light of a few lamp posts, and it was mind numbingly cold, making her long for her woolen winter cloak and it’s heavy,coarse warmth. 

Her parents had given her permission to explore alone the night before; they knew there was a side to this place that was bound to interest her. Paveur-sur-Moire was one of the many places with a hidden magical community living alongside Muggles. The travel booklet she had found in Diagon Alley had given her all the information she needed to get past the Concealment Wards that kept the Muggles out, and, having read it cover to cover twice already, she felt fairly confident exploring by herself.

She soon reached the town square: it was empty, save for a large fountain that sat, forlorn and dry, in the middle of the black cobbles. The dim glow of the lightening sky giving the whole scene a rather eerie feel, and it was deserted, being still too early for the shops to open. 

However, Hermione knew she wouldn’t be alone for much longer; the large clock on the church wall indicated that it was already ten past seven, and that the inhabitants would soon wake up.

Briskly, she walked over to the basin; it was oval, with a carved block of pale stone in the centre out of which jutted several black metal half-pipes. Delicate engravings ran along the sides of the slab, lending life to the entire structure. It was very beautiful. Hermione searched for any designs that evoked a magical theme, as the booklet had instructed her to, but found none.

Frustrated, she rummaged through her rucksack until she found her wand. 

_'Specialis Revelio!'_

She felt a rush of satisfaction as the spell worked; her nonverbal casting was getting quite good. One of the figures on the fountain was now pulsating with a soft blue light. She leaned over to look at it more closely and noticed, to her delight, the tiny figure of a man brandishing what appeared to be a miniature wand. Just below him there was a small indent in the limestone, and, with some trepidation, Hermione placed the tip of her wand in the hole. 

Instantly, she felt a ripple of magic rush over her, and as she stood up, she saw that the scene had noticeably changed.

A few people wandered around the square, all wearing robes. Several of them glanced at her, but other than that, no-one seemed to notice, or care, that a stranger had suddenly appeared in their midst. 

The buildings had also changed; the names were modified, and Hermione could see quite a few magical objects on display. One building caught her eye: it was painted a pale blue and the words  _Office de Tourisme_ were emblazoned on the front in large golden letters. It was there that she headed.

Inside, it was depressingly bare; the only furniture she could see was a desk at the back of the room, half-hidden with documents. It took her a second to notice the young woman seated behind the stacks of paper; she was blonde, small, with a painted red mouth and very white teeth.

"Bonjour," ventured Hermione.

Her French was limited but she had done her best to learn the bases. She asked after the points of interest. At that the woman smiled and replied, in a neat, accented English.

"You will want to go to ze Manoir, I am sure. It is our most popular attraction, but you will 'ave to take a Portkey. They go every hour, so ze next one will be in ten minutes."

"You’re right, I do want to see the Manor," said Hermione, "Although I was hoping I could find a guide..." She trailed off, looking uncertain. Now that she voiced the idea, it felt laughable; it was obvious that they were the only people here. But to her surprise, the woman only beamed at her.

"But I can be your guide! I know ze 'istory of this place and I can do a tour."

"Zat is,' she added uncertainly, 'If you don’t mind –"

"No, no, that would be great," said Hermione quickly.

She suddenly felt excitement bloom in her stomach: the  _Manoir des Ternums_ had captivated her ever since she had first read of it in her travel book last summer. The mysteries that surrounded the place were legendary…

"Zen we must go now." The woman got up and walked away at a brisk pace, her heels clicking smartly on the tiled floor. Hermione hurriedly stood and caught up with her just as she slipped through a doorway that Hermione had not noticed beforehand.

"Miss… I’m sorry, I don’t know your name, but where are we going?" said Hermione breathlessly.

The woman turned to smile at her.

"My name is Louisa, and we are going to catch a Portkey," she said. She did not slow down as they walked through a long corridor and down a flight of steps.

"I’m Hermione Granger."

The room they entered was filled with strange looking objects, some hidden behind glass cabinets, others displayed on stone pedestals. Louisa crossed to one of the tables lined up against the wall and picked up an old, empty, wine bottle. She glanced at the golden watch on her wrist, frowning slightly, and beckoned to Hermione with an elegant finger.

"Ze Portkey will leave soon," murmured Louisa, taking out a long, dark wand from her pocket. She pointed it at the Portkey and twirled it a few times, lips moving soundlessly. This seemed to satisfy her, and she smiled once again as Hermione crossed the room over to her. Together they grasped the bottle and after a few seconds, Hermione felt a jerk in the area of her navel, and then she was suddenly hurtling through the air.

*

The ground was much too hard as she slammed into it. For a few seconds, the world spun in and out of focus; she hated the terrible dizziness that always accompanied this particular form of travel. Louisa looked amused at the sight of the prone human on the ground, although it gave way to polite indifference as Hermione stood up unsteadily, head still reeling.

"It does not get better with time, you know," she said lightly, although Hermione noticed that she was aggravatingly unruffled, smile and golden hair still perfectly in place.

They were outside; the light had changed, tinged with a pale yellow that announced sunrise, and a few vaporous clouds were crawling from one end of the sky to the other. The two women were standing in a ring of grass in a graveled driveway, the stems underfoot hard and still white with frost. The mansion itself was tall, with large glazed windows and a dark roof, walls criss-crossed with the bare bones of ivy vines. It seemed to be well looked after, but it was too silent, and strangely bereft of life. It lay there, deathly-quiet and empty, but perfectly preserved, as if it were suspended in time.

"No-one has lived 'ere for over fifty years," said Louisa quietly. She was no longer smiling.

"Ze last owner died in 1944. You might know her. 'Er name was Vetusa Delage. She was a great witch."

Hermione nodded slowly.

"Killed by Grindelwald, I believe. Just before he himself was defeated by Dumbledore."

"Zat is correct. As I said, she was a great witch."

Together they walked to the door, which opened as they approached. Inside it was dark, but at a wave of Louisa’s wand the lamps flickered to life. It was as if Hermione had been transported back in time; the décor had not changed since the 1930s, she guessed. They walked through a few rooms while Louisa chattered about the previous occupants. It was fascinating, but Hermione felt quite disconnected from her surroundings. There was something about this place that sent tingles of apprehension down her spine, and she didn’t like it at all.

As they entered the kitchen, she felt Louisa stiffen at her side. Cursing fluently under her breath in French, she turned to Hermione with a deep frown on her face.

"Miss Granger, I am so sorry. I 'ave forgotten zat I 'ave a rendez-vous, and I cannot miss it. I 'ope zat you can finish the tour by yourself."

She shook her head and resumed her muttered profanities.

"To get back you need to take ze Portkey from the 'allway. It is another bottle. One leaves every 'our on the 'our, so you only need to keep track of the time. I am sure I do not need to tell you that zere are some very strong anti-theft charms in zis house and that you can only leave with a Portkey. You can pay once you come back."

Here she leaned over to peck Hermione on the cheek.

"Goodbye 'Ermione, it was nice to meet you."

With that, she hurried out of the room, her footsteps muffled by the heavy carpets. Hermione stood there, confused by the sudden turn of events; she was now free to roam the residence of one of the most powerful witches of all time; it made her shiver with delight. She spent the next hour wandering the old house, until only the cellar remained to be searched. She had found the door earlier on, but had opted to leave it for last, as it hadn’t wanted to be opened. In the end, it had taken some fiddling, but she had finally managed to jerk it open in a great cloud of dirt. Winding stairs led her down into a high-ceilinged chamber, which was dimly lit by a couple of dirty gas lamps; a thin layer of dust coated everything and her shoes left clear footprints on the floor. She had the sudden, guilty, thought that she maybe wasn’t supposed to be there.

The room appeared to be empty, and she was just about to head back up the stairs when she experienced a curious prickling sensation on her skin. It was the feeling of magic. Unfamiliar, powerful, magic. Unthinkingly, she headed over to one of the corners of the chamber and ran her hand down the wall. She was intrigued, but not surprised when she felt the ridge of a hidden door under her hand, and all at once the slab of stone melted away. Hermione stared from the dark opening to her fingers, and was startled to a small cut on her index. She must have cut herself earlier on, most probably while she was battling with the door. She hesitated a second before muttering a quick  _'Lumos!'_ and setting off at a half-run down the passage.

Inside, everything was wet; water puddled on the floor and ran down the walls. Occasionally, a drop would hit her head and run down her scalp, making her shudder. The freezing air smelt like damp and decay. She had been walking for no more than five minutes when she stumbled into a room. For a second, the breath caught in her throat as she stared at the heaps of objects lying on the floor. Most were unidentifiable, but here and there she spotted something she could recognize; there were piles of books, thick, dusty volumes bound in leather and dragonskin.

There was a large cauldron in one corner, filled with what looked like a heap of tattered robes. One table displayed a full, old-fashioned brewing kit, complete with jars of ingredients. She saw a broomstick, a gilded mirror, a few wooden wizard chess pieces and, to her bemusement, what she suspected to be flying-carpet. She was puzzling over the source of light when her attention was snagged by large, broken, silver cabinet. Making her way over to it, she was astonished to see a single candle crouching on one of the shelves, burning with a cold, disturbing ferocity. Hermione felt bizarrely compelled to get a closer look, and barely registered the glowing scarlet runes etched in the black wax before a sudden impulse made her reach out and grab it.

*

She was awake. She was also cold, light-headed with pain, and, judging by the wand pressed to her temple, no longer alone.

"Vous faites quoi ici?"

Hermione struggled to sit up, and unexpectedly, the grip on her shoulder loosened. She turned to face the owner of the foreign voice; hard grey eyes stared back. The man was sandy haired and middle-aged, nose slightly crooked, lips thinned in surprise and mistrust as he gazed down at her. He repeated his question, and Hermione shook her head slightly.

" _Pardon, je ne parle pas français._ "

The broken french seemed to confuse the man even more. Abruptly, he stood up, extending a hand as he did. She hesitated a moment before taking it, noticing the many scars that ridged the warm palm. For the first time she took in her surroundings, and she almost gasped; it was the same room from before, but gone was the jumbled mess. Instead, it was clean and tastefully furnished, with a cream rug, a few cushioned chairs, and a large, heavily polished table. There was even a small fireplace, complete with a merrily crackling blaze that cast a shivering golden glow on the patterned wallpaper. The man looked at her again, eyes slightly narrowed.

" _Suivez-moi._ "

Hermione supposed this was an invitation (or an order) to follow, so she joined him as he walked over to the door and into a brightly lit corridor. She felt a new astonishment when she realized that it was the same passageway as before, but it too had been transformed. Her companion now ignored her completely, head bent and footsteps loud on the paneled floor as he strode on.When they reached the end of the corridor, he abruptly turned around and, pressing his wand to her head, muttered a rapid incantation. Hermione gave a small shriek as she felt a conjured band of materiel wrap around her head. A blindfold. She itched to spell it off but forced herself to keep her hands at her side; using magic now, in this strange place with this strange man, was probably not the best idea.

She was being pushed up a flight of stairs. Once or twice she stumbled, and each time a gentle hand would engulf her shoulder and right her. The ascent seemed to take an eternity blind, and the man did not remove the blindfold when they reached the top. Instead, he continued steering her through the house, until she was completely disorientated. All at once she was forced to a halt; there was a moment of complete silence, as if of hesitation, before she heard a soft knock and the sound of a door being opened. There was a sudden strong smell of mint, and then the blindfold was gone.

The bright daylight made her wince, and as the room slid into focus, she saw that there was a person silhouetted against a window, facing them. It was a woman; she looked at Hermione and sighed loudly.

" _Cornaille. J’espère que vous avez une bonne explication pour tout ça_."

_"Madame, je m’excuse pour l’interruption, mais je ne savais pas quoi faire. Cette fille était dans votre bureau; j’ai senti que l’un des enchantements de protection avait été brisé, et quand je suis allé vérifier, je l’ai trouvée. C’est probablement une moldue, mais elle ne parle pas français et j’ai l'impression qu’elle me cache quelque chose..."_

The woman looked sharply at Hermione as Cornaille (she gathered that was his name) said this, causing her to shiver unconsciously. The woman was very tall, dressed in immaculate navy robes, with long grey hair and dark eyes that didn’t seem to miss a thing as she took in Hermione’s unkept appearance.

_"Grindelwald?"_

_"Je ne pense pas."_

The witch waved her hand wordlessly, and all at once Hermione felt magic brush over her, curling her tongue and sending tingles shooting down her spine.

"I hope it worked. I haven’t actually tried it on anyone yet."

Hermione staggered in shock. The woman was still speaking French  but she could understand her . She had never heard of a spell capable of such a feat but it was surely very powerful magic.

"Well, judging by her face, it has. I guess I have to be all intimidating now. How tiresome."

Cornaille smiled.

"I can do it if you wish."

"No, don’t worry, I’ll manage," she said, turning to face Hermione.

"So, let’s hear it. Who are you? How in the world did you get past my wards? Are you with Grindelwald? Oh, and what in the world are you wearing? I have never seen such atrocious clothing in my life."

Hermione stood still in shock. Had she just said Grindelwald? She struggled to find her composure, and, to her displeasure, her voice trembled slightly when she answered (in her new, fluent, French).

"My name is Hermione Granger. I don’t know how I got here, or who you are, and I am most certainly not with Gellert Grindelwald, whom I assume it is you are referring to. Also, if you’ll excuse me, could you tell me what year is it?"

The woman’s eyes widened almost comically as she said this.

"You mean to say that…"

She stared at Hermione for a few seconds, expression thoughtful.

"Well, that clears up a few things; I am very sorry for this whole mess. My name is Vetusa. Vetusa Delage, and today is July 14th 1943 – Meryl, you fool, she’s a time-traveller, do stop looking so confused and go get us some biscuits. Anyway, my dear, you must be simply exhausted. Let us go to the sitting room and you can tell me all about yourself; I have a feeling it will be an interesting story."

*

Once Hermione was comfortably seated and had been adequately plied with food and drink, it was time to tell her story. She had given a concise, albeit incomplete, explanation of her predicament. It had taken a lot of self control to not let anything important slip, especially with Vetusa’s constant probing and questioning. Yes, she was a witch, educated at Hogwarts. No, her parents were not magical. No, she could not say who had won the war (Vetusa had looked very disappointed at this). No, she had no idea how she had travelled back in time. Yes, there was a candle. Yes, a black candle. When she heard this, Vetusa had clapped her hands in excitement and taken over the narrative.

Ævi candles, she explained, were extremely rare. So rare, in fact, that for the vast majority of the wizarding population they were the stuff of fairytales and children’s stories. There were thought to be less than a dozen in existence, and they could all be traced back to a Peddler Witch from the early 13th century. It was said that she used beeswax from hives infected by Glumbumbles and her own brand of, now forgotten, runic magic to create them.

Time travel by Ævi was rare for one simple reason: the user had no way of telling how far back in the past they would go. The runic magic of them made them unpredictable; in much the same way that no-one had yet managed to recreate it, none had been able to understand the logic behind the number of years Ævi transported the user back. Vetusa only knew of three documented cases where the utilizer had managed to return to their own era, and each time they had reported that the candle had brought them back a seemingly random number of years, anywhere from half a decade to a century. Their description of the candle itself, however, was a different matter; in each account it had not varied, not the runes that were those who came back had remembered, nor the size, nor the color, be it if the wax or the flame. 

Another peculiarity was that, contrary to Time-Turners, the travels of those who had used Ævi had not affected the events of their own time in the least. This gave rise to the commonly accepted theory that users were transported to a parallel universe, and thus their actions would not change their own timeline. The whole theory was detailed in the very long and completely hypothetical book "The Pillars of Time", by celebrated magical physicist turned author Aurelius Ballucia.

Hermione had travelled by Ævi; she was now stuck half a century in the past, with no discernible way of getting back to her own timeline or even universe. To make matters worse, she was caught in the crossfire of two wars and stranded in France with a slightly mad, extremely powerful witch who was fated to die less than a year later. It was, as Mrs Granger would put it, a bit of a muddle.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The French in this translates to;
> 
> 'What are you doing here'
> 
> 'Sorry, I don't speak French'
> 
> 'Follow me'
> 
> 'Cornaille. I hope you have a good explanation for all this.'
> 
> 'Madam, I'm sorry for the interruption, but I didn't know what to do. This girl was in your office; I felt one of the protection enchantments break, and when I went to check, I found her. She's probably only a Muggle, but I have a feeling that she's hiding something from me...'
> 
> 'Grindelwald?'
> 
> 'I don't think so.'
> 
> Don't worry, there won't be anymore after this xx


	2. Back to Hogwarts

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think my upload schedule will be once every two weeks to once a month. Thank you for all the comments and attention on the last chapter! It is all very much appreciated.

Summer at the Manor was unquestionably beautiful, but Hermione found that she couldn’t quite enjoy it. For two weeks, she had been stuck in the past, and she was still no closer to finding a way back. Vetusa had done her very best to make her guest feel at home, supplying endless quantities of good food and freedom to roam the grounds, but to no avail; Hermione’s frustration mounted with every day, boosted by her confinement to the property. The old witch had decided that it would be too dangerous for Hermione to stray outside of the wards, what with the current political climate. Courtesy of her open and fierce opposition of Grindelwald, the only place that was really safe for anybody attached to the household was inside the web of concealment charms. Even with Cornaille with her, there was no guarantee she would be safe.

There weren’t many people in the house. Vetusa kept an old house-elf who did most of the cleaning, although there were also a few servants. Hermione had tried to talk to him, but he had stubbornly refused all conversation, saying that he had work to do, and finally, she had given up. It was much the same story with the staff. Cornaille, though absent most of the time, was sometimes in the house too, but she didn’t dare approach him. She couldn’t figure out what his relationship to Vetusa was; he obviously respected her and so she decided that he was a type of associate, but there was something about him that warned her to keep her distances, and so she did.

Her life had fallen into a routine. Every morning she would rise and head down to breakfast, where she ate alone in the big Dining Hall. She took toast and a cup of black tea. Then she would mount several flights of steps up to the Library and pick out a book from Vetusa’s considerable collection; she had been delighted to discover that they shared a common interest in Romantic Poetry. If the weather allowed it, she would wander outside and rest in the shade of a large elm, basking in the warmth and the loud chirping of the crickets. If not, she would climb up to the attic and settle in the alcove of a window, legs curled up underneath her so as to fit. Most days she would take a small lunch of bread, cheese and fruits with her.

When evening came, she would go to the Dining Room to eat with Vetusa (at the latter’s insistence). This was the only time they would see each other, as Vetusa would spend the whole day away from the house on what she called "work business" (despite the fact that she was retired). After having eaten, she would disappear down to her office and Hermione would head up to bed.

The conversation at these meals was the highlight of Hermione’s day; Vetusa was a brilliant talker, full to the brim with interesting anecdotes and stories. Occasionally they would argue about some point or other, Vetusa brandishing her wine glass impassionedly while Hermione tried to reason with her. Several times, with some particularly spirited gesticulation, the red liquid escaped and stained the pristine white tablecloth. Vetusa would vanish it with an impatient swipe of her wand and continue her monologue as if nothing had happened.

One evening, while they were finishing dessert, the conversation switched to politics. Hermione mostly listened as Vetusa detailed the many flaws in Grindelwald’s campaign, waving her fork for effect.

"It is hard to believe he is still around. If I am honest with you, I believe that Grindelwald wouldn’t have lasted a second if it weren’t for his connections. You see, those in his inner circle are some of the most powerful Purebloods in the whole of Europe, families like the Zaubbern, the Lestranges, the Volken… So logically, if we defeat the families, we defeat him. But the trouble is, he is rather good at escaping, so even then it’s not a guarantee. Why Dumbledore won’t – Bad pie, dear?"

Hermione had dropped her fork onto her plate with a loud clatter.

"Did you say Dumbledore?"

"Yes, weren’t you listening? I was saying that Dumbledore doesn’t want to fight Grindelwald. Circe only knows why, I mean, if it were me…"

But Hermione was no longer paying attention. She could not believe she had been so downright _stupid_. Of course she should have thought of Dumbledore! It seemed obvious now that if anyone could help her, it would be him.

"I need to talk to him." She was vaguely aware that she had rather rudely interrupted Vetusa, but fortunately the old witch didn’t seem to mind.

"What a good idea! I shall owl him, and we’ll see if we can arrange a meeting. I have a feeling that he is scheduled to come to Paris soon, but I’ll have to check."

“That would be would be wonderful.”

"I’m sure he’ll be very interested to meet you, you know. If I remember correctly, he did write a paper about Time Travel a few years ago; in fact, I don’t know why I haven’t already contacted him. We need all the help we can get with your… Current situation. I’ve already written to a few trusted acquaintances of mine on the subject actually. In all discretion, of course; if Grindelwald were to find out about you… Well, it barely bears thinking about."

"Who did you talk to?"

"Perenelle Flamel; I don’t believe there is anyone who knows more about Time Magic in the whole of Europe than the old dear. Eleanore Priposki (a MACUSA contact of mine), and let’s see… Stunbrooke… Oh, and of course, _dear_ Aurelius, although the man is a complete ass, brilliant but utterly intolerable, and do you know that… "

But before she could finish, two arms had wrapped around her neck in a tight embrace, effectively cutting her off.

"Thank you," breathed Hermione.

Vetusa only smiled in response.

*

Magical Paris was confusing and exhilarating in equal measures.

Vetusa had decided that they would Floo up to the city the day before their meeting with Dumbledore. It was, as she said, the perfect time to get in some shopping, and Hermione had grudgingly agreed; her only true belongings were the clothes she had brought on her back (long since discarded for items out of Vetusa’s own wardrobe) and her backpack, containing her wand, the travel book, a lip gloss and other miscellaneous pieces of makeup, a few francs (worthless here) and several sweet wrappers.

It had been settled that Hermione would continue her education, although the school she would go to was still a matter of debate. As it was, the upcoming encounter with Dumbledore would determine whether or not she could attend Hogwarts (her personal preference), or instead go to Beauxbatons (in Vetusa’s opinion, the better choice). Private tutoring had been out of the question.

The high street was unlike anything Hermione had ever seen; she had once thought of Diagon as big, but she could now see how that she had been severely mistaken. There were dozens of shops for clothing alone, windows animated by prettily painted mannequins showing off the latest robe designs, posing coquettishly as Hermione passed. There was an Apothecary at least tree times the size of the one in London. Vetusa had nearly needed to hold her back when she caught site of _Le Coeur du Grimoire_ , the largest book shop in the whole of magical Europe. There were restaurants, stores, a museum, a park, a cemetery with some of the most eminent magical names in history (Hermione had peered through the gates longingly), several banks (though none to the scale of Gringotts) and of course people. Paris was exceptionally crowded.

The whole afternoon they had flitted from one place to another, buying things that Hermione both did, and didn’t, need. By evening, the two were exhausted, and, toting their many purchases, made their way back to the hotel. After dinner, Hermione had packed all her belongings into her new magically extended trunk.

She now had a set of black wizarding robes, several blouses that ranged from a deep green to a neutral beige in color, a few era-appropriate skirts, three hats, three pairs of shoes, dress robes, a heavy woolen mantle for winter, another two pairs of robes (one light blue, the other a wine red that Vetusa had bullied her into getting), some jewelry, a scarf, socks, undergarments (Hermione had thankfully found a way to permanently transfigure them into styles that were both more familiar and comfortable) and a flattering evening dress that Vetusa had insisted every self-respecting witch needed.

Hermione had also wondered if she should get a pet; it would be a great source of comfort for her when she went to school. Still, in the end she couldn’t bear the idea of adopting some animal only to abandon it when she found her way back to her timeline (in her head, it was a given that she would). Not to mention that it felt like betrayal of Crookshanks, the cat she had taken home in 4th Year. At the thought, Hermione had felt a deep rush of nostalgia: she missed her friends and family _and_ cat deeply, however kindly she had been treated since arriving in 1943. But it did not do well to dwell on the past (or was it the future?); much better to concentrate her efforts into finding her way back to those she loved, rather than bemoan her situation. What had happened had happened, and Hermione had never been one to indulge in self-pity, especially if there was work to be done.

*

Early the next morning they apparated to a small wizarding neighbourhood in the 7th arrondissement; Dumbledore had given them the address of the small apartment he was staying at. Outside, Hermione gazed up at the building; it was very beautiful, decorated in the style of Art Nouveau, all wrought iron railings and intricate stone carvings and wondered which balcony belonged to Dumbledore. Vetusa took care of the doorbell. She realized she was sweating, and frantically tried to calm her nerves. First impressions were very important to her, and she wanted the approval of the younger version of her future headmaster; although she did not know much about his past self, she could not imagine that he would be quite as unconventional as the Dumbledore from her own timeline. A tap on the shoulder jolted her from her musings, but it was only Vetusa telling her the door was open; they were now free to enter.

They took the stairs, Vetusa’s lavender robe sweeping the cold stone as she climbed steadily up three, four, five floors. Hermione was out of breath when they finally reached a narrow corridor. There was only one door, painted black with a large brass knocker in the shape of a swan. She reached out to grasp it and as soon as she touched the metal, the wood vanished. There was a call of "Coming!" and suddenly Albus Dumbledore appeared.

He was taller than she recalled. His forehead was less lined, the glasses gone, the beard much reduced, his hair now short and flecked with grey (he was sixty, to be fair). He was wearing some kind of muggle suit, a checkered green affair with a white shirt, and, to her bemusement, a bright red apron. Despite all the differences in his appearance, he was still recognizable. Maybe it was the familiar piercing blue gaze, or maybe the grave demeanor that somehow exuded kindness and power.

"Welcome! Madame Delage, how good it is to see you!" he exclaimed, shaking her hand enthusiastically. "I read your last article in _The Practical Potioneer_ , fascinating stuff, although I am afraid to say that we must agree to disagree over some of the finer apects of moon cycles." His eyes twinkled somewhat mischievously as he said this, and Vetusa scoffed lightly in an amused manner. Then his gaze moved to Hermione, and his demeanor shifted to one of sharp interest.

"And you must be Miss Granger," he said softly, extending a hand. "My name is Albus Dumbledore." Hermione tentatively grasped it, surprised at the formality of his tone. But after all, she reflected, she was a complete stranger to him. It felt very odd, introducing herself to someone she had known so long.

"Pleasure to meet you, sir," she said politely.

"The pleasure is all mine, my dear," he said warmly, and then he beamed at the both of them, stepping back into the hallway and opening the door wider as he did.

"But please, come in, come in! I’ve just prepared a Victoria Sponge, and if you wish there are tea and biscuits."

Hermione took the opportunity to look around as he strode off down the hall, chatting with Vetusa. The apartment was small and mismatched, and, she thought, entirely unsuited to him. One half was decidedly old fashioned, with a large dusty horse-hair sofa and grimy oil paintings whose occupants all seemed to be decidedly unimpressed by Dumbledore; the portrait of one young woman glared furiously at him when he walked too close and hurriedly trotted off into a neighboring landscape, eyes shooting daggers. Hermione wondered what he had done to upset them.

The other half was, for lack of a better word, bizarre. There was, for instance, a ginormous tree stump in the middle of the room. Both Dumbledore and Vetusa seemed to keep a respectful distance from it. Hermione understood why when she noticed a head with bat like ears and dark liquid eyes sticking out from a hole in the side. Much to her embarrassment, she gave a small shriek, answering her companion’s enquiring glances by muttering something unintelligible about pixies, and flushing furiously all the while. From then on, though, she kept a firm grip on her wand beneath her robes. The rest of the room included, but was not limited to, a mounted skeleton of some creature that Hermione didn’t recognize, a rickety set of table and chairs that seemed to be made from antlers and wood, furniture that spanned decades, including a suspiciously modern looking glass coffee table, a panel bright with the pinned bodies of butterflies, and finally, a large printing press that whirred sluggishly in the corner.

Dumbledore bade them sit down around the coffee table, Hermione taking an armchair and Vetusa gingerly settling on the sofa next to him. With a snap of his fingers, a tray appeared in between them, laden with a large iced cake, a steaming pot complete with cups, and a plate filled with crescent-shaped biscuits. He served them both then settled back down, chewing contentedly on a large slice of the cake. 

"So, Miss Granger, I hear you are a, ah, _traveller_ in these parts," he ventured, eyes crinkling at the corners. “How are you finding the fourties?"

"It’s... It’s different." Hermione sipped at her tea nervously and immediately scalded her tongue. "Vetusa has been simply wonderful to me, of course, but I hope to get back as soon as possible, you see. Back home."

"Of course," said Dumbledore gently, but his sympathetic tone did not quite match the shrewd expression he was wearing. 

"Home," he echoed thoughtfully. "If you don’t mind me asking, where, or rather, _when_ is home for you?"

"I come from the year 1996."

"Yes, a distant time indeed." Dumbledore shook his head mournfully. "I promise to do my very best to get you back, Miss Granger. But tell me," he said, and his eyes were once again boring into hers. "You seem, if you’ll forgive the assumption, to already know me. Or rather, the future me, I imagine?" 

Hermione shifted uncomfortably in her seat; despite the fact that she had been transported to a parallel universe, the timeline here seemed to be identical to the one she knew, barring her arrival, of course. Dumbledore was not so subtly asking her the outcome of the war they were surrounded by, and she did not know how much she could comfortably tell him.

"You were Headmaster in my time," she said cautiously and he seemed to notice the warning in her voice.  

"Well," said Dumbledore, smiling. "I always did want to become Headmaster; glad to see that one version of me succeeded." She was relieved that he had abandoned his questioning.

He brushed the crumbs from his mouth and suddenly took on a more serious expression as he exracted a roll of parchment from a pocket.

"The Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry has rarely ever accepted students over the ages of eleven and twelve. However, with your situation, the current Headmaster, Armando Dippet, has agreed to make an exception. He does not, of course, know your true identity. Instead, he believes you to be the niece of the immensely wealthy and respected witch Vetusa Delage, and thus he was rather quick to accept your application. I took the liberty of crafting your backstory; your name will be Hermione Eversons, daughter of Adrianna Vetusa and English Muggle Henry Eversons. Your parents were tragically killed by supporters of Grindelwald, of which your mother’s family has always been fierce opponents. You were placed in the care of your estranged aunt, Vetusa Delage, who then decided, upon your request, to enroll you into Hogwarts. Since you have already started your sixth year, it seems most logical to put you there along with people your own age. However, I have to ask you to complete these affinity tests, and also for a practical demonstration of your magical ability," Here he handed her the parchment, which she promptly unrolled. On it was what seemed to be excerpts from the O.W.L exams, several inches for each subject.

"Those are for you to fill out as soon as possible. Now, to the interesting part; would you be so kind as to take out your wand, Miss Granger?"

First, he asked Hermione to charm a cup, watching with amusement as she made it grow legs and do a jig. For Care of Magical Creatures, he waved toward the stump and asked her to explain the correct handling of pixies.

"The apartment belongs to a friend of mine who’s rather into Magizoology. The pixie is a companion of his, and unfortunately, she doesn’t really like strangers. Or anyone, for that matter, so I’d advise you stay well away if you value your fingers," he said, smiling wryly. He then asked Hermione to transfigure a sparrow (he had instantly conjured one) into a jug, which she attempted nonverbally. She was gratified when she succeeded not only in creating a neatly patterned pitcher, but also in making Dumbledore’s eyebrows shoot up in both surprise and appreciation. Last of all, he stood up, and, much to Hermione’s apprehension, took out his own wand from a holster at his side.

"For Defense against the Dark Arts, we will duel. I will, of course, only be using spells that sixth year students must be able to recognize and cast. You are also encouraged to do your best to beat me." He winked at her before crossing the room and taking up a dueling stance. Vetusa watched eagerly from the sofa, and smiled in encouragement at Hermione, who’s mind had suddenly gone blank in panic.

"First, we bow," said Dumbledore, and she hurriedly inclined her head as he did.

"And then… We duel."

He sent a Jelly-Legs jinx her way and she almost scoffed, drawing up a shield charm instantly. The spell hit it, and her eyes widened when she felt the power behind the simple curse. Quickly, she followed up with a nonverbal Conjunctivitis, that Dumbledore dismissed easily with a wave of his wand. It went this way for several minutes, yellow, green and red light shooting from both of their wands. It was not a particularly hard duel for Hermione, but it was frustrating; her spells had gone no where near Dumbledore. Thus far, she herself had only been using basic Defense magic, and she suddenly decided to mix things up a bit. She quickly cast a Disillusionment Charm on herself, keeping up a shield as Dumbledore watched her rapidly disappearing form with interest. Once she was satisfied that she was nearly invisible, she cast a _Colovaria_ , creating the effect of a bad Disillusionement as the spell crawled away from her, reflecting distorted colors in the shape of a body. To her relief, her plan worked.

Dumbledore’s eyes immediately snapped to the figure and he sent a jinx at it. By the time he realized what had happened, she had moved across the room and was standing behind him. But just as she was raising her hand to cast an _Expelliarmus_ , Dumbledore whipped round and shot a spell at her. Simultaneously, their two wands soared through the air and landed on the floor with a clatter. The duel was over.

Dumbledore beamed at her.

"Very impressive, Miss Granger. I must say, I’ve never seen quite the same maneuver, but it was certainly very clever; from what I’ve just witnessed, Hogwarts will be very lucky to have you as a student. The school will send you a letter with all the required school materials once you have completed the exams, but it hardly seems necessary anymore. If I may, what were your previous O.W.L results? You seem to be very well versed in all subjects."

"I had nine Outstandings, sir, and one Exceeds Expectations in Defense Against the Dark Arts. I didn’t do Divination or Muggle Studies."

"Very impressive indeed." Hermione blushed at the compliment as he continued.

"Well, I believe that concludes our meeting. The Hogwarts Express is scheduled to leave at eleven o’clock on the 1st of September; I assume you know how to find Platform Nine and Three-Quarters? If not, we can arrange to have someone escort you."

"I do," answered Hermione immediately. Dumbledore nodded, satisfied.

"I sincerely hope that we will be able to get you back to your own timeline; I’ve started my research, and I think it would be a good idea for us to meet regularly once you are at Hogwarts, maybe under the pretense of extra Transfiguration work."

"That would be good, Professor (She remembered that he did, in fact, teach Transfiguration at Hogwarts). Although I hope to already be back to my own time by then."

"We will do our best. It was very nice to meet you, Miss Granger. Madame Delage, as always, it was a pleasure."

Hermione knew this was their cue to leave and followed as Vetusa and Dumbledore made their way to the door.

"Thank you, Albus. We will owl, I hope."

"Of course. Goodbye and safe journey to you both."

“Goodbye."

*

It seemed to Hermione that the holidays were over just as they started. Suddenly, it was the end of August, and Hermione would soon be going to Hogwarts; she had, of course, received a perfect score on her mock exams and had been given the all-clear to start her sixth year. The last week with Vetusa was bittersweet. They spent most of their time together, holding long conversations, playing tennis (Vetusa believed that the wizarding world should adopt more Muggle sports) or taking picnics in the orchard. Once, they even went swimming. Hermione knew that she would miss the witch dearly; she had done nothing but help her, giving her a home and an anchor from the beginning, something that was rare in any and day and age, least of all with two wars going on. For that reason, Hermione had also revealed the fate that had befallen Vetusa in her own timeline. She figured that her arrival in this universe would already have changed things, so why not save her friend in the process? Vetusa had promised to take more care.

She knew that she would miss the Manor; it had been an oasis in the arid world she had been flung into, and, much as she wished to get back to the people she knew and loved, she was immensely grateful for it. On the eve of her departure she had taken a long walk around the grounds. Much to her surprise, Hermione had even almost cried when she said goodbye to Cornaille, though she had been nothing short of petrified of him from the very beginning. It seemed that things could change.

There was still a long way to go in the search for a way back to Hermione’s time, but there was finally some good news; several of Vetusa’s correspondents, including Dumbledore, had found promising results in their research. Unfortunately, there was nothing conclusive yet, but it had lit a flicker of hope in Hermione’s mind.

*

On the 31st of August, they travelled across the Channel to London. It had been Hermione’s first experience with an international Portkey, and she was not keen to repeat the experience. That morning, she had said a very tearful goodbye to Vetusa; they had decided that she would make her way to the station alone.

Walking through King’s Cross had been a very odd experience; some areas were still under reconstruction from the war, and there were so many people that Hermione had had extreme difficulty navigating her heavily-laden trolley through the throngs. Her progress was so slow that by the time she reached platform nine, it was already ten to eleven. Her panic escalated even further when she couldn’t find the passage to Platform Nine and Three-Quarters; the metal barrier that she had used in the 90s simply didn’t exist.

Hermione was so busy standing there, cursing herself for refusing Dumbledore’s explanation as disgruntled Muggles pushed past, that she hardly noticed the appearance of a young man pushing a trolley that rivaled even hers in size. She was absent mindedly watching him maneuver the wheeled monstrosity away when realization struck her and she suddenly cried "Wait!".

The wizard (she was certain that he was one), as well as several other people, turned around to stare at her, but she ignored everyone but him, determinedly charging through the crowd to where he was standing. She was relieved when he didn’t turn tail and run, although the look on his face suggested that he was definitely considering the possibility.

"Excuse me,” she panted, “I’m going to Hogwarts, and I can’t find the barrier – you’re – you’re also a student, right?"

"Uh, yes, I am," he answered hesitantly. "I’m sorry, but who are you? Are you some sort of transfer student?"

He was remarkably astute, Hermione noticed. Up close, he was also remarkably good looking, with neatly combed dark hair and strong, even features.

"Yes, I am. Well noticed." she smiled at him and he grinned back easily. His teeth were very white.

"My name’s Hermione, Hermione Eversons. And you are?"

But before he could answer, she suddenly remembered that they, did, after all, have a train to catch, and it would probably be best to hurry.

"Wait, tell me later; we need to get to the platform first. Do you know where it is?"

He nodded and pointed at a brick wall only a few feet away.

"Through here."

He glanced around to see if anyone was looking, then gripped his trolley and swung it over, disappearing through the wall. Hermione promptly followed.

The scene she stepped into was so familiar, that, for a second, she fully expected to see Ron and Harry emerge from the thick steam; a hollow sensation filled her, but she quickly banished it. She was here now, and that was that. Looking around for her companion, she realized he had already vanished, which was fair enough, since there were less than two minutes to departure.

Her trolley rumbled in front of her as Hermione ran to the scarlet steam-engine. Immediately, several people came to her aid, gripping her heavy trunk and throwing it through the door. Once she was inside, she thanked those who had helped her and set off down the corridor, luggage in tow. Nearly every compartment was full, so she finally settled in a relatively empty one at the end of the train. There were only two other students in it, both 7th years if the matching scowls on their faces were anything to go by. Those sitting their N.E.W.Ts were notoriously irritable. She quietly shuffled in and levitated her trunk into the slot above the seats. The train suddenly swung into motion and she nearly fell onto one of the compartment’s residents, a girl with a mane of blonde hair and a very prim expression. She squawked and swiftly moved out of the way, scrambling to pick up her papers.

"I’m so sorry," Hermione squeaked. She could feel herself going bright pink and hurriedly turned away, only to come face to face with the loud laughter of the other occupant.

"Drinking on the first day? You should be lucky we’re not prefects." He frowned at her suddenly, eyebrows drawn together in confusion. "Wait, who are you? I’ve never seen you before."

"I’m – I’m new," she stammered. "My name’s Hermione."

"Oh. Well, it’s nice to meet you, Hermione. I’m Cillian, and the one you almost squashed is Marelyn, but don’t worry, she’ll forgive you. Some day. Maybe."

"I really am so sorry –"

"Don’t worry." The girl spoke up, and it was a relief to see that she wasn’t glowering at her anymore, although she didn’t exactly look happy.

"So, why are you here? Some kind of transfer student?"

"Yes, exactly. I’m starting my sixth year, you?"

"Seventh," answered Cillian.

"You’re Gryffindors, right?" Hermione had noticed the red and gold embroidering on their school robes. She suddenly felt the urge to change into her own uniform; she was still wearing her Muggle skirt and blouse.

"Yes, we are. You’re going to be sorted at the feast?"

"I guess so." Hermione had given the matter little thought; she supposed that she was going to be sorted along with the first years. The idea made her insides shrivel a bit.

"I hope I’m in Gryffindor."

Cillian beamed at her.

"Me too, it’s by far the best house. Where are you transferring from, by the way?"

"Home. In France. I had a tutor."

"Oh, so you’re French?" Cillian asked eagerly.

"My mum was." He didn’t seem to pick up on the implication behind the words, but Marelyn looked up rather sharply.

"And your dad?" he continued obliviously.

"English. That’s why I’m coming to Hogwarts."

"Did he go?"

"Oh, no, I’m a half-blood." Hermione was suddenly afraid she was saying too much, and decided to divert the conversation. "So, you’re a N.E.W.T student?"

The two kept up a steady stream of chatter throughout the whole journey. Hermione rather envied Marelyn, who had buried her head in a book several minutes into the train ride, but she figured that it wouldn’t hurt to be social; she needed some friends, and plus, Cillian was nice, if a bit loud.

Night had fallen by the time the Hogwarts Express drew into Hogsmeade. Hermione shared a horseless carriage with both the Gryffindors and one other person that she, predictably, didn’t know. The nameless student from the station hadn’t reappeared.

During the drive up to the castle, she saw Cillian giving the stranger distasteful glances, and she sighed internally. Obviously, some things didn’t change; the boy was wearing green trimmed robes.

When they reached the school, she experienced a bit of a shock when she saw a much rejuvenated Professor Slughorn, now sporting a mop of straw blonde hair, standing in the archway. Her suspicions were confirmed when he strode towards her and grasped her hand.

"You must be Miss Eversons! My dear, I'm very pleased to meet you. I am Professor Slughorn, Potions Master here at Hogwarts, and also your guide for this evening. Incidentally, we might want to hurry, the Sorting is due soon. Best not be late."

She glanced desperately at Cillian as she was chivvied into the castle, but he only responded with a look of deep sympathy; obviously Slughorn was a bit of a notoriety even in the 40s. She trotted after him as he led her through a series of twisting and turning corridors. They finally reached a small doorway that opened to the Great Hall, up near the High Table. The smell of food was overwhelming, causing hunger pangs to shoot through her. She hadn’t wanted to anything from the Trolley Witch back on the train, and she was sincerely regretting it; she was absolutely famished.

"Now, you just wait here until the end of the Sorting. Professor Dippet will introduce you to the school and then you just walk up and sit on the stool and put on the hat. Quite odd, but that’s how we sort at Hogwarts." He winked at her. "I hope you’ll be in Slytherin; my house, you know, and arguably the best."

He squeezed her hand encouragingly and winked again. Straight away, he hurried through the archway up to where the rest of the staff was gathered, taking a place at the end of the table next to a man who seemed to be missing most of his limbs.

Dumbledore was seated in the middle of the table, right next to the throne-like chair she knew was reserved to the Headmaster, a small, white haired man with whom he was in deep conversation. He was clad in the most outrageous robes she had ever seen, spangled gold with a deep red trim; his pointy wizarding hat was much the same, and his hair seemed to have grown several inches and was set in ringlets that cascaded down his back. She had never seen such a display of Gryffindor pride in her life. She started to laugh when she saw that his beard and mustache matched his hair, but quickly stopped; laughing seemed to increase the butterflies bouncing around in her stomach.

The noise was deafening, a veritable cacophony of chattering, laughing students and clinking cutlery. The candles that she knew from her own time hovered above them all, bathing the whole scene in golden light. The ceiling was a velvety black; it was a calm night. Hermione, however, did not feel calm.

She stood there, digging her nails into her palm nervously until they left little indents in the skin. Dippet stood up to give the customary welcome speech, which he seemed to take an obnoxiously long time to deliver. Then there was the Sorting, a steady stream of tiny students that ran out and jammed the hat onto their heads, scampering off to whatever house the hat screamed. And then, all too soon, Dippet was back on his feet and addressing the Hall again.

"Welcome all new students, and congratulations on surviving your Sortings; however, we still have one last Sorting to perform tonight. A transfer student from France, niece of none other than Madame Vetusa Delage, sorceress of international repute, I have the great pleasure of announcing that she has decided to join us here at Hogwarts and will be starting her sixth year along with whatever House she is sorted into. So please, give a warm welcome to… Miss Hermione Eversons!"

Hermione was dimly aware of every single eye in the Hall trained on her as she walked over to the stool and sat down. She was trembling slightly as she jammed the worn hat over her head.

_"My Goodness… I haven’t sorted anyone as interesting as you in some time."_

_Hello, Hat,_ she thought _. Could you do this a bit more quickly please?_

In her head, the hat chuckled wryly.

_"I might need a bit of time for you… You have a great mind, Ravenclaw would nurture it… And there is ambition, a longing for power… Very Slytherin, although you do not wish to hear that, I see."_

_Not Slytherin. I’m not a Slytherin._

_"Slytherin would be good for you, your full potential could be realized… But no, maybe not Slytherin… There is courage and hardworking, but those do not suit you either… Better be…_ RAVENCLAW!"

Hermione removed the hat and headed towards one of the middle tables, barely acknowledging the applause. Her mind was whirring; she had always thought that she was Gryffindor, but it seemed that in this reality she simply was not. She hesitated a bit before heading down the table to where the older students were seated. Several of them moved over so that she could sit down and she was suddenly conscious of the fact that quite a few people were looking at her. The girl sitting directly next to her spoke up first.

"So, France? Does that mean you were at Beauxbatons?"

"Um, no actually." Hermione scrambled to rearrange her thoughts. "I had a private tutor at home, so I’ve never truly been to a school before…"

"Really?" said another girl several seats down from her. She was extremely pretty. "Well, if you ever have any trouble, I’d be glad to help. My name’s Ivaine, by the way. Ivaine Fawley."

"Fawley as in the retired Minister for Magic Fawley?"

The girl suddenly looked defensive.

"Yes," she said warily. "That kind of Fawley. My dad."

"Don’t worry, Ivaine," said the boy next to her. He put his hand around her shoulder comfortingly. "Hermione doesn’t seem like the type to bash your father’s political career."

"I hope so," muttered Ivaine.

The girl who had spoken first shook her head slightly at Hermione’s inquisitive look.

"Ivaine gets a lot of comments about her family. But I’m sure you're same, right? What with your aunt being _the_ Vetusa Delage. I’m Artemia, just so you know."

"Um…"

"Ah, it’s fine. Let’s eat." Indeed, no sooner had the words fallen from her mouth than food suddenly appeared on the table. Hermione groaned in delight, instantly piling her plate with spoonfuls from several dishes. Artemia watched her with raised eyebrows.

"Hungry?"

"Starving" came the response. Once Hermione felt like her stomach would burst, the talking resumed. She learnt the names of the four other girls and six boys from Ravenclaw in her year, and those of several fifth and seventh years as well. The conversation over dessert was primarily about the holidays, and she was listening attentively when she suddenly had the distinct, uncomfortable impression that she was being watched. She looked up, only to lock eyes with the boy from the station. He was staring at her rather intently from the Slytherin table and he smiled disarmingly when he noticed the direction of her gaze. She looked away quickly, finding that it was suddenly embarrassingly hard to breathe. Artemia, who had been watching the whole interaction, leaned over and smirked knowingly.

"So I see you’ve met Riddle," she said quietly. Hermione choked on her pie, and started coughing loudly.

"Riddle?" she spluttered.

Artemia stared at her in confusion.

"Yes, Tom Riddle. He seems rather interested in you, don’t you think?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading!  
> It's holidays, my dudes, so we'll see how often I post.  
> Dumbledore can speak French fluently. That is a fact that I have decided.  
> Also, I’m not quite sure if I want to do a chapter here and there from Tom’s perspective; your opinion is very much appreciated!


	3. Classes with Voldemort

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter took aaaaaages to write. I had no idea what to put in it, so I am afraid it’s not my best work. Oops.  
> However, enjoy if you can!

Tom Riddle liked Hogwarts. He liked the classes, he liked the comfort and he liked the food. He liked the admiring looks his classmates gave him and he liked the praise from the teachers. He liked the predictability of the whole enterprise, the rhythm of the well oiled machine that was life in the castle.

He did not like disruptions, and Hermione Eversons was certainly one. 

"What do you know about her?"

Abraxas, to his credit, seemed to immediately know who he was referring to.

"Not much," he muttered. "The Delages and the Malfoys have never liked each other much. Blood Traitors,” he added. "Eversons is a Muggle name, though; in my opinion, probably a half-blood."

"And her aunt?"

"Rich, powerful, elusive. Hates Grindelwald. What else is there to know?."

"Not much," Tom agreed.

"And what do _you_ think of the girl?" Tom looked at him sharply, but Abraxas’ face was schooled into a blank mask, betraying no emotion.

"We will see." He had not quite known what to think of the bushy haired girl wearing Muggle clothing in the station, especially when she immediately hailed him, as if he were someone she knew, as if she were sure he would help. And of course, he had, because he was charming Tom Riddle, school prefect and top of his class. He was amiable and attractive, friendly, and when she smiled, he had smiled back without hesitation; that was what you were supposed to do, was it not? And as soon as she had, predictably believed the act, he had dismissed her, the fact that she was an exchange student a novelty that faded quickly. Hermione Eversons had become, as so many others did, just another face. Dull, uninteresting. A disappointment. But then he discovered this, an interestingly reclusive aunt, admired by the whole of Europe, and suddenly there were secrets to uncover, things that he could use.

She could have value.

Nott, who had been discreetly listening to the exchange, raised his eyebrows.

"What do you think, My Lord? Will she be useful?" he said in an undertone.

Tom smiled at the use of the title, a smile very different from the golden-boy grin he had perfected over the years. This one held a glint of danger, a promise of things to come.

"As I said, we will see."

Nott had simply nodded. Tom looked around, searching for any eaves-droppers, but, to his satisfaction, there were none. The rest of Slytherin knew well enough not to listen in on their conversation, or more specifically, his conversation.

"But… You are interested?” inquired Nott. Tom tilted his head slightly in assent. He looked over to the Ravenclaw table, dark eyes narrowed, searching.

She was sitting in a group of her housemates, listening to their conversation raptly, fork halfway to her mouth. She looked up and immediately met his eye, so he smiled his most disconcerting smile, and she hurriedly looked away, blushing slightly. He saw her neighbor lean in, saw her whisper something, and then a most curious thing happened.

She spluttered, started coughing and then… There was an expression of horror on her face, and she shot him a look, a look filled with fear, and, to his disconcertment, with… Hatred. Her eyes were pure venom as they bore into his, and he turned away, weirdly shaken. The rest of the boys, who had witnessed the interaction, wore matching expressions of shock.

"What…" Abraxas trailed off, unsure of what to say. There was an uncomfortable silence that stretched seconds into minutes. At the Ravenclaw table, the girl looked away.

"What the hell was that?" breathed Nott, voicing all their thoughts. "What could Gargon have said? Merlin, if looks could kill…"

Tom gazed at him silently, thinking.  
"I don’t know," he said, and several of the boys shifted nervously at the tone of his voice. "But trust me, I’m going to find out."

*

Hermione acknowledged that her reaction had been a bit strong, but to be fair, it was understandable. How were you supposed to respond to the news that the boy with the charming grin and the neatly groomed hair, the one who had helped you and that you had smiled at, would grow up to be a mass murderer, the darkest wizard to ever live?

_Tom Marvolo Riddle._

_Lord Voldemort._

She hadn’t even considered the possibility that he was here, had been stunned to hear the name and then her mind had placed it and… And he had noticed. Of course he had noticed, because she was glaring at him, and if he hadn’t been interested before, he certainly was now. In this time, he was Tom Riddle, respected Prefect, school hero and everyone liked him. She was the anomaly, and worse, she had made it blindingly obvious.

Her mind was whirring frantically, and she tried to calm down, hiding her face in her hands. Artemia was still looking at her quizzically, eyes wide.

"Hermione, are you alright?" she asked uncertainly.

Hermione took a deep breath and looked up, composure regained.

"Yes, I’m fine thanks. Stomach cramps. I think I might have eaten too much." She tried for a weak smile but it came out more a grimace.

Artemia wasn’t convinced.

"Are you sure you’re ok? Look, we can go to the Hospital Wing if you want…"

"It’s fine. I’m fine."

"Well, okay. If you’re sure," she looked as if she was going to say something else but seemed to think better of it. "Come on, I’ll show you the dorms."

Already quite a few people were standing up, so that the Hall was slowly emptying. Hermione left with a large group of Ravenclaws, new friends included.

The walk to the Common Room was long and confusing. Several times, as they went up a flight of stairs, it would shift and they would find themselves facing completely the wrong direction. Hermione tried to memorize which portraits and doors they passed but she soon lost track. Finally, after climbing up a seemingly endless spiral staircase, they reached a large door; there was no handle, only a carved bronze knocker in the shape of an eagle. 

One of the seventh years stepped forwards and tapped it. As soon as he stepped back it’s beak opened with a metallic click.

"It can't be seen, can't be felt, can't be heard and can't be smelt. It lies behind stars and under hills, and empty holes it fills. It comes first and follows after, ends life and kills laughter. What is it?" said the bird in a smooth voice.

Hermione, too tired to concentrate, only listened as people proposed answers.

"Time?" suggested a boy with chestnut hair. The eagle didn’t answer, but she thought this was a good guess.

"No, I think it’s something… I don’t know, less general?" said Ivaine. "Maybe the dark?"

"Correct," said the smooth voice, and the door slid open. 

Hermione had read about the Ravenclaw Common Room in Hogwarts: a History, but still, she was not prepared for the sight that met her eyes as they stepped inside; the room was big, circular in shape, with large glass windows that gave a breathtaking view of the lake and grounds. The walls and the high domed ceiling, crisscrossed with delicate beams, were painted ivory, giving the whole room an airy feel. There were bronze and blue banners, blue and bronze tiles, several marble statuettes including the bust of Rowena Ravenclaw, some dark-wooded furniture, tables and chairs, armchairs. A chandelier filled the room with a steady clear light, perfect for reading. Her heart skipped a beat when she saw an array of bookshelves on one side of the room, curved to fit the wall. Next to them stood an elegant staircase that stretched up, up and up into the roof, presumably to the dormitories.

She was proved right a second later when most of the students surged forward and up the stairs, yawning and chattering subduedly. It split into two so that the boys headed up one way and the girls the other. Artemia led her up past several doors until they reached one with one with a metal ‘six’ stuck to it.

The design of the dormitory was similar to the common room, albeit a smaller version with five beds. They were identical to the ones in Gryffindor except for the hangings that were, of course, in Ravenclaw colors. Hermione stood in the doorway as the other girls moved past, unsure of which bed to take.

"That one must be yours," said Ivaine, pointing to one on the left side of the room. Sure enough, when Hermione checked, her trunk lay on the floor by it’s side, confirming her ownership.

Once the curtains were drawn and the only sound was of the steady breathing of the sleeping girls, Hermione took out a piece of parchment along with a quill. Lying in bed, she scribbled a letter to Vetusa, leaving out all mentions of any young Dark Lords at Hogwarts. Soon after, she fell asleep.

*

Potions was the only class with a teacher that Hermione knew, but that, she reflected, did not mean the class hadn’t changed. So when she walked into the dungeons on Friday afternoon, flagged by Ivaine and Marcus, she was surprised to see that the scene was very much like the one she was accustomed to. Flaming torches burnt on the walls, sending flickering shadows across the room and over the dark silhouettes of the few other students already seated around the tables. Slughorn stood in a corner, head bowed over a cauldron as if he were completely absorbed by his work, but Hermione thought this was more for show than for anything else. He was something of a known dramatist, and this was not something she thought would have changed with time.  She joined several other Ravenclaws who were sitting together at a table near the front of the class, and she greeted them all by name, save one student she didn’t know wearing a yellow necktie and a distinctly uncomfortable expression.

This might have been to do with the fact he was the only one thus attired; the class was even emptier than it had been in her own time, with less than a dozen students, primarily Ravenclaws and Slytherins.

There was a heavy smell of aniseed as she sat down, the source a pot that stood near their table. The scene had a definite sense of deja vu; several more of these cauldrons were dispersed around the classroom. It was all very familiar. But no, surely Slughorn would not be using the same lesson layout fifty years in the future? 

Hermione broke of her musings as the man in question moved to the front of the class.

"Welcome sixth years," he began in his usual rumbling tone. "Congratulations to all of you on acheiving no less than an ‘O’ on your O.W.Ls." That, at least, was a change from what Hermione was used to. Previously he had an only asked for an ‘E’. Maybe this meant that the younger Slughorn would be a stricter teacher? "Now, as N.E.W.T students, I expect you to maintain this level of effort and devotion to your studies. Although in June you will only sit your regular exams, please understand that the work we do this year  WILL be in your final examinations."

Her attention drifted elsewhere; this speech was nothing but a variation of one she had heard many times before. Her eyes landed on one of the cauldrons and she craned her neck a bit to catch a glimpse of the interior. Bubbling inside was Polyjuice. The next one she looked at contained Veritaserum. The one after Amortentia. Obviously Slughorn hadn’t edited his lesson that much at all.

A sudden thought struck her; if there were all the same potions, then...

She scanned the room until she found it; a black cauldron containing a golden liquid that leapt up into the air. _Felix Felicis_.

She wanted it. Needed it, some would say.It might present her with the perfect opportunity to get back to her time...

If Slughorn were to offer it up as a prize, she was determined nothing would stop her from winning.

"So, now that we are all familiar with the course work, I think it’s time for you to get a taste of what is to come this year. As you may have noticed, there are several cauldrons around the classroom. In each cauldron is a potion. Can anyone here identify this one for me?"

He pointed at the cauldron near a group of Slytherins. It was full with a black, heavily bubbling substance.

Unable to resist, she raised her hand and Slughorn pointed at her.

"It’s Polyjuice, sir."

"Ah, very good Miss Eversons," he said. "Can you tell me what it does?"

Hermione was a bit surprised that she was expected to explain. Surely it was obvious? But she had noticed that the lessons quite a bit simpler in this time; it was true that war was a far less urgent matter here.

"People use it to take on the appearance of any person they desire. However, it isn’t in any way permanent, and it’s notoriously hard to brew. Also,"—Here her lips tugged up at the corners—"you really shouldn’t mix it with animals."

"Precisely," Slughorn beamed. "Now, how about this potion?" He addressed the class, this time pointing at the cauldron to Hermione’s right, which was filled with a clear, odorless liquid. Out of habit, her hand shot into the air once more. He quirked an eyebrow, expression amused.

"Miss Eversons?"

"Veritaserum, or Truth Potion, as its name suggests, renders the drinker incapable of telling a lie. It’s usage is strictly monitored by the Ministry for Magic, and it’s a punishable offense to use it without official permission."

"Indeed," Slughorn acquiesced, smiling jovially. "I don’t doubt that you are related to Vetusa; take ten well earned points for Ravenclaw."

Artemia, eyes wide, leaned over to whisper in Hermione’s ear.

"How do you know all that?" she muttered incredulously, but  Hermione only shrugged, determined to answer the next question.

"And what about this one here?" Slughorn was saying. Hermione dutifully looked over to the cauldron he indicated. It was the one that had so occupied him at the start of the lesson. The heavy purple smoke that rose from it masked the interior, and even from her seat on the other side of the classroom, she could pick up it’s cloying, sickly sweet scent. But just as the answer clicked in her brain, Slughorn’s voice rang out across the dungeon.

"Mr Riddle?"

"It’s the Draught of Living Death, sir, a sleep potion so strong that the coma it induces is said to be like death, hence the name. Asphodel, one of the most magically powerful plants, is used in it’s brewing; that’s what you can smell, sir, because when you combine it with valerian it is greatly enhanced. Unusually for a sleep potion, it only has one antidote. Even a bezoar is ineffective against it." His voice was smooth and polite, and it grated Hermione in a completely illogical way.

Slughorn chuckled.

"As always, Tom, a perfect answer. Ten points to Slytherin."

This infuriated her; how dare he receive the same amount of points as her for only one answer! She could have told Slughorn all of that, and it was she who had to prove herself, not him.

"Sir, what about the other potions," she snapped, struggling to contain her anger. Slughorn’s expression was rather taken aback, but it turned to amusement.

"Indeed, Miss Eversons. What about the other potions? I assume you can identify them for us."

"The other potions are Amortentia and Felix Felicis," she said shortly. A tingling, uncomfortable sensation ran down the back of her neck; it was the feeling of being watched. She shifted minutely and caught site of a pair of dark eyes boring into her head. What scared her in Tom Riddle’s expression was not the anger, although it was undeniable, but the interest. 

"Quite right, quite right. Now, about Felix..." Slughorn looked for someone to ask other than Riddle and Hermione. "Malfoy, tell me what you know."

The blonde haired boy at the Slytherin table, who she now saw did bear an uncanny ressemblance to one Draco Malfoy, looked rather discomfitted. 

"Um... I don’t know much, Professor. I think it has something to do do with... Luck?"

"Yes. Felix Felicis is, quite litterally, liquid luck. One teaspoonful for six perfect hours. The best day of my life, you know..." Slughorn cut off dreamily. "And I will be giving you the opportunity to win a bottle of our friend Felix." A wave of whispers rippled across the room. Hermione saw quite a few people sit up straighter, wearing mixed expressions of excitement and determination.

"These competitions are famous," whispered the Hufflepuff at her table ecstatically. "Good luck to all of you."

Marcus nodded distractedly.

"Thanks Macmillan, but I’m afraid I can’t say the same for you." He was, she noticed, only half joking.

Hermione was puzzled. Marcus had been acting oddly ever since breakfast, and she didn’t know why, but she shrugged it off and focused her attention back on Slughorn.

"We will be brewing the Draught of Living Death. You may take out your copies of  _Advanced Potion Making_. I do not expect any of you to succeed in brewing the complete potion, but the person who creates the most advanced work will win this prize." He drew out a tiny bottle filled to the brim with a golden liquid. It was almost identical to the one Harry had (unfairly) won so many months ago. But this time Hermione wasn’t above using the Half-Blood Prince’s instructions. "You may begin."

Hermione rushed to the store room to collect the ingredients. In the doorway she almost collided with Riddle, who barely glanced at her; he looked very different from the picture of frightening interest from before. She took out her wand and summoned all the ingredients so that they fell into her cauldron one by one; it was lucky that, in a fit of selfrightenousness, she had brewed the potion so many times that she had both the classical and the adapted recipe memorised. She was the first to return to her desk, the first to start.

She didn’t even take out her book, summoning up the recipe in her mind.

_Heat Infusion of Wormwood over fire until bubbling_

_Chop Valerian sprigs finely and add_

_Five clockwise stirs_

Soon her potion was the clear blue described in the second stage.

_Add crushed Nightshade berries_

_Stir anticlockwise twice, clockwise thrice_

_Leave to simmer_

Her potion started fading to a deep inky black. Hermione knew that this was the time she should take to chop her Sopophorous Bean, but instead she cast a small Accelaration Charm on her cauldron and crushed the beans under her knife. The juices poured out and she tipped them into her potion.

It immediately turned lilac, and she grinned; at her table, only one person had advanced beyond the second stage.

_A clockwise stir after every seventh counter-clockwise stir_

Her potion turned a pale, almost white pink. 

_Add minced sloth brain_

_Turn up fire so as to create fierce boil_

Her potion started to darken once more, small bubbling clumps forming on the sides. The fumes were thickening noticeably, so that she was sitting in a cloud of greyish steam that isolated her from the rest of the class.

She stirred her concoction for a while until it was a uniform peacock blue.

She added the powdered root of asphodel, and once the reddish powder had been tossed in, a purple streak appeared. The same purple, she saw with delight, as the finished potion.

Hermione sat in the pungent steam, hardly daring to believe the speed at which she had completed her work. As if on cue, Slughorn’s voice called "Time’s up!"

She watched as he strode around the classroom, giving his judgment on the student’s work. On several occasions he would make a louder comment to mark his approval. When he saw Riddle’s potion he exclaimed excitedly, finally clapping him on the back. Hermione regretted sitting so far away from them, as she could not make out a word he was saying.

He finally made his way over to her table, and his reaction when he caught site of her cauldron was most gratifying.

Slughorn’s shock was almost comical, all bulging eyes, slack jaw  and ‘o’ shaped mouth.

"H-How..." he finally spluttered.  "Miss Eversons, for this most outstanding work, your prize."

Hermione accepted the bottle with a muttered "Thank you" that he didn’t seem to register. He made as if to leave but hesitated.

"Would you mind seeing me after class?" he asked her in an undertone, before adding, in a louder voice, "Class dismissed. Please tidy your workstations. Tom, a word."

She looked over rapidly to where the dark haired boy was sitting and accidentally met his gaze, something that seemed to be happening disconcertingly often. His eyes burned into hers, but she could no longer read his emotions

Hermione faltered a bit, but she refused to look away. They sat like that for several interminable moments, neither wanting to be the first to back down.

_I hate him_ , she thought. And then:

_I’m having a staring contest with Lord Voldemort._

The absurdity of the thought almost made her laugh out loud. Riddle noticed her amusement and his eyes widened. All of a sudden he looked away, blinking in a slightly dazed manner. Hermione felt a fierce satisfaction at her victory, which was quickly replaced by panic.

_What am I doing?! I’m supposed to avoid him, not openly challenge!_

The class had emptied around them, so that only she, Riddle and Slughorn remained. The latter chose that moment to clear his throat loudly.

"Well, if the both of you would come here... Yes—that’s right. Perfect. Tom, it seems that we have at last found your match in Potions. Miss Eversons—May I call you Hermione? Thank you, my dear. As I was saying,  _Hermione_ has created one of the best Draught of Living Death’s I have seen in my entire career, a _m_ _ost_ impressive feat considering the time limit. In fact, as my two best students, I was wondering if the both of you would be up for a _little project_ of mine. Hogwarts has rarely seen such talent, and it is my personal belief that it must always be put to use." He beamed at them widely. "How would you feel about writing an article for the  _Practical Potioneer_?"

"Yes!" They had answered at the exact same time. She looked at Riddle. Everything about him, the shining eyes, the leaning in as if he were drinking up Slughorn’s words, the wide smile, screamed sincere enthusiasm.

Slughorn chuckled. 

"I must say, it is wonderful to see such spirit. Ah, to be young again! Anyway, I should leave the two of you to discuss what you will choose as your project."

"Don’t you mean ‘projects’, Professor?" asked Hermione quickly. Beside her Riddle frowned in agreement to her words.

Slughorn smiled ingratiatingly.

"Ah, no Hermione, I am afraid not. There are only so many articles that can be published, and anyway, I am sure we can agree that the combined work of two such brilliant minds as yourselves will be _most_ impressive. And of course, it will be a wonderful opportunity for the two of you to get to know each other."

Riddle smiled charmingly.

"Of course, sir. I am sure we will soon become firm friends."

Hermione eyed him suspiciously. That had very clearly _not_ been the impression that either she nor he had given.

"I am quite sure," said Slughorn obliviously. "If you’ll excuse me, however, I have places to be. Those Mandrakes aren’t going to deroot themselves."

And with a final parting wink, he walked out of the classroom before either of them could say another word.

"Well,” said Riddle, who suddenly looked rather akward. "I guess we will be seeing quite a bit of each other. I’m Tom, by the way."

Hermione eyed his proffered hand as if it were something very unpleasant. Which it was, to her. She did not shake it.

"We’ll see about that," she snapped. Grabbing her bag, she made as if to join Slughorn through the door, but a handsuddenly gripped her wrist, halting her.

She gasped and whipped around to face Riddle, trying to pull out of his hold.

"Don’t. Touch me," she bit out, and immediately the grip on her arm loosened. Riddle shook his hand gingerly.

"I apologize," he said in a stiff voice. It did not escape either of their notice that he sounded completely insincere. She didn’t wait to hear his next words, though, but turned on her heel and stormed out of the classroom, not bothering to look back.

 *

Hermione took to avoiding Riddle as much as she could, which was rather hard, considering that they shared nearly all the same classes. He was in Ancient Runes, Transfiguration, Herbology, Defense Against the Dark Arts, Arithmancy, and, of course, Potions. She did the best she could, sitting on the other side of class, and studiously avoiding his eye, something made in even more difficult by the fact that he always seemed to be bloody _staring_ at her.

If the others noticed, they didn’t comment, although Artemia had changed the way she behaved around Hermione, being overall quite a bit more distant. In their friend group she spent most of her time with Ivaine, who turned out to be a very caring friend, and Marcus Mayhew, a fair-haired boy she had struck up a friendship with in Charms.

She was writing to Vetusa regularly, although her letters were always rather short; not much was happening at Hogwarts, save of course the usual sordid gossip that the other girls always seemed so interested in. However, she did not think that Vetusa needed to know that Henry Stebbins was cheating on his girlfriend, nor the fact that Panorea Greengrass _smoked_ in the girl’s toilets.

Thursday marked a whole week at Hogwarts, and that morning she arrived in the Great Hall a bit later than her usual time, courtesy of her decision to post her letter before most of the student population was awake.

Artemia looked up as Hermione sat down across the table from her.

"How come you’re so late?"

"I went to the Owlery," Hermione replied shortly.

"Oh."

Conversation in the morning was, to say the least, uncompelling. Around her the half asleep Ravenclaws were reading the Prophet, eating, or shuffling their homework unenthusiastically.

Hermione frowned when she saw the letters heaped up in front of Marcus.

"Any post for me?"

He looked up, as if startled, and shook his head.

"None, sorry."

She wondered why he looked so unhappy; for several days he had been silent and unresponsive. Ever since, in fact, that fateful Potions lesson on Friday. 

But apparently Marcus had spoken too soon, because just at that moment a gloriously rusty school owl swooped down and dropped the rolled up newspaper from her daily subscription and a small envelope on her empty plate.

She hastily unrolled the newspaper and scanned the front page. To her relief, it was dominated only by a report of the wedding of some famous witch; it was a change from the steady stream of articles covering the horrors of the war, from the grisly murders to the pureblood propaganda. 

Hermione turned her attention to the enveloppe, sliding a fingernail underneath the emerald wax seal to open it. Inside was a short note, scrawled in a loopy green handwriting that matched the seal.

It was familiar, and she figured out why when she saw the initials: A.D. Albus Dumbledore. 

It was an invitation to meet him in his office the following Monday, after class. To discuss, as he put it, her extra work.

She appreciated the attempt to conceal the true nature of their upcoming meeting, but it was, in her opinion, a rather pointless endeavour. Hermione was very careful to not let anyone ever read her letters, and she made sure of this by, rather dramatically, spelling the contents so that only she could read them. She did so, and when she looked up, she saw that Artemia was watching her.

"Who wrote you?" she asked, finger twisting a strand of her blonde hair. Hermione did not answer immediately, but slipped the letter into her pocket.

"A friend," she finally responded. Artemia didn’t pursue the matter, but raised her eyebrows slightly.

"Okay."

Hermione sighed and helped herself to some toast; she was in for a long day.

Green house number six was a lot larger than the others, a fact she was glad for as the class huddled inside. It meant that she could stay well away from the Slytherins, many of whom seemed to be throwing hostile looks her way. In this age, being a half-blood was considered bad taste by the pure-bloods, and she, not bothering to conceal the fact that she  allegedly had Muggle descendance, had raised quite a few hackles. Students who had been content to speak to her and ask for help were now more or less stand-offish, although the Slytherins were more open with their dislike. She suspected it might have something to do with Riddle.  

The Herbology professor, a beefy man with a rather prominent nose and bushy eyebrows, busied himself by putting them in groups. Hermione found herself paired with Ivaine, two Gryffindors by the names of Dinora Diggle and Bastien Twycross, a dark haired Hufflepuff who introduced herself only as Mary and a rather familiar-looking bespectacled Slytherin she knew hung out with Tom Riddle, who ignored everyone and who everyone seemed content to ignore.

She half listened as the professor—Beery, she remembered—explained at length what their project would be. A plant to study and to experiment on for the first two months, with a written report that detailed their findings and it’s history. Her group was assigned Venomous Tentacula, and she shuddered when she glanced over at the spiky vine that slouched in one of the corners of the greenhouse.

Dinora, who seemed to be enjoying the lesson, was assigning roles for the work, something that annoyed Hermione to no end. Especially when she found herself with the task of doing the practical experimentation; she did not want to go anywhere near the plant, not when she knew it could kill people, and that was something that her role would have her do. What would really interest her was the research part of the project, which would mean sifting through the library. In other words, bliss. Still, she didn’t want to challenge Dinora, not when the Gryffindor had such obvious enthusiasm for the project.

So she had resigned to her fate, perusing a page in her Herbology manual that listed the potions Tentacula was used in. A sudden impulse made her look up, and she saw that the Slytherin in their group, whatever his name was, was frowning slightly at his page.

"Are you okay?" she asked, before realizing that it was a rather personal question and that, familiar as he might seem, he was very much a stranger. He glanced sharply at her, eyes wary.

"I’m fine, thank you," he said. His voice was distinctly well bred, deep and smooth. It was, she thought, the voice of a politician.

"Oh, I’m sorry for interrupting. It’s just, you don’t look particularly happy." She felt suddenly mortified at the abruptness of her words, sure she was offending him. But to her surprise, he only chuckled, a warm, rich sound.

"For that matter, neither do you. Venomous Tentacula not your cup of tea?"

"Well, yes, actually. I don’t really want to be stuck with a plant bent on trying to kill me, to be quite honest."

"Funny, because I don’t want to be stuck in the library for hours at a time, flipping through dusty old books. Feel like swapping?"

"Would I!"

"Well then, let’s. Diggle, Eversons and I are exchanging roles, do you mind?"

Dinora didn’t pause her scribbling as she answered.

"That’s fine, Nott."

 _Oh_ , thought Hermione. _That’s why he’s so familiar. He’s Theo’s father._

"Nott?" she said without thinking. He looked surprised.

"Yes. Have you heard of us?”

Hermione scrambled for an explanation.

"I think my aunt might have mentioned the name before," she muttered. She was relieved when he didn’t question her answer.

"Well, we are rather well known." He pulled a face and she laughed.

But then Hermione remembered that she was speaking with a future Death Eater and her stomach flipped.

"We should be working, Nott," she said shortly.

"Thaddeus." He ran a hand through his hair distractedly. "Please, call me Thaddeus."

And suddenly Hermione realized that whatever atrocities he would commit in the future, right now he was a sixteen year old who hadn’t done anything but choose to befriend the wrong person. He was not a Death Eater, and neither was Malfoy, nor any of the other Slytherins. Save Riddle. He was unsalvageable, already a monster and a murderer.  
And so she said "Call me Hermione", and the smile she gave him was genuine.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter will contain a lot more Tom PoV, so we’ll see how that goes.  
> As always, feel free to make remarks on the language, I can use all the help I cam get xx


	4. Evening with a Riddle

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I won't write much this time, only that I'm going back and forwards editing previous chapters to my liking. I also made a little weeny change to Hermione's age, so that she's a year younger (her birthday is still 19th September, only now the year is 1980 instead of 1979), which is why she says she isn't of age to Tom.  
> As always, enjoy, and thank you for the comments!

He hated her.

Tom was fairly certain of this fact; never had anyone annoyed him _quite_ as much as the curly haired witch currently sitting several seats in front of him, never. Not even _Dumbledore_ , for crying out loud .

She was so open with her dislike, a dislike that was, as far as he could tell, completely unfounded. He didn’t even know her, and he was fairly certain she didn’t know _him_.

She had absolutely no reason to not behave like the rest of the population at Hogwarts, no reason to not admire or even fawn over him. No reason to ignore his civil smiles, his polite greetings, and definitely no reason to look at him with such hate and mistrust in her eyes.

Unless...

But no. There was no way she knew about the Chamber, no way she knew about his Knights, nor his father... He twisted the Gaunt Ring round his finger, lost in thought. The precious few he had told would never betray him, and he was certain he had left no damning evidence behind.

No-one knew that he was at the root of that unfortunate incident last term. It was quite impossible; the only person who had ever even suspected him to be involved in that second year’s death was Dumbledore, and he had no actual proof, only his suspicions.

 _Prejudiced old fool_ , thought Tom. He had never been able to explain the reason for his Professor’s blatant dislike of him, apart from his being a Slytherin, and that which he had once unknowingly revealed. And since then he had always done his utmost to be the perfect student around him.

_In any case, being a Parselmouth is by no means damning evidence._

Maybe Dumbledore had shared his misgivings with Eversons? But he banished the thought immediately; although he had noticed in class that they were on good terms, something that he put down to a previous meeting, he highly doubted they would have talked about him . The notion alone was laughable.

And plus, she had not always reacted to him with such hostility; no, that had all started at the feast, because of something her neighbor had whispered in her ear. Something, incidentally, that he had every intention of finding out.

As for his Knights, he was positive that they would never divulge his secrets. He had made sure of it last year, and an Unbreakable Vow was a rather deadly promise to break.

No, he really didn’t know why she hated him so much.

At the beginning, he had tried to be polite, never failing to wish her a good morning or to keep the door open as she passed into class. All he got in return was badly concealed hostility and curt acknowledgement delivered through gritted teeth. It had angered him beyond belief, driving him to empty classrooms to take out his anger on any furniture that was unfortunate enough to be in the vicinity. The way she unfailingly sent him on such inelegant rampages unsettled him; when he had been trapped in the orphanage he had never felt the need to rein in such destructive urges (away from the sharp eyes of Mrs Cole, of course) but it had all changed when he came to Hogwarts.

He hadn’t had such an incident in, well, _years_. But that was before she came along.

When civility had failed, he tried for a new angle, attempting to stay aloof and disinterested in her. This seemed to suit them both for a while, seeing as she did her best to avoid him in any case. But then with every class he had grown steadily more infuriated as _,_ without fail, her hand shot into the air before his. The teachers were delighted with such an obvious show of enthusiasm, with her word-perfect, textbook answers.

What had she done, memorized the year’s book list? Ridiculous.

For the first time Tom was having to make an effort during lessons, having to actually _compe_ _te_ with another student. The challenge would have delighted him if only it weren't for the fact it was her, the bossy, uppity, bushy-haired little cow. She never lost a chance to one up him, making snippy, vaguely insolent comments if a teacher happened to call on him first. And for some reason they found Everson’s and Riddle’s little rivalry _entertain_ _ing_ (so talented, the two of them, the tragic, brilliant orphans). The worst of them was Slughorn who had positively lapped up the whole narrative, lumping the two of them together for one of his ‘projects’. Although he had to admit she had impressed even him that first class. Brewing a Draught of Living Death in an hour? It was almost unheard of.

He had found it strangely fascinating, watching her work away at her potion, so absorbed that she didn’t look up even once. She hadn’t even _glanced_ at her recipe, for Circe’s sake. And then, there had been several odd moments during class. Like when she had smiled, as if enjoying a private joke, when she talked about the incompatibility of Polyjuice and animals.

_What on Earth did that mean?_

It was odd little things like that, like her mysteriously complete undertstanding of the castle (she had arrived to breakfast alone with owl feathers in her hair on several occasions; no-one should be so comfortable getting to the Owlery in their _first_ week) _,_ like her irritatingly complete knowledge in all subjects, her aloofness, and, of course, her utterly unreasonable dislike of him that made Hermione Eversons’ very existence such a frustrating puzzle. But he would solve it, solve her. Her secrets would be his. He would make sure of it.

A menacing smile grew on his face as he sat back in his chair, crossing his arms. Oh, he would make sure of it all right.

“Tom.” Malfoy’s murmur broke him out of his reverie.

“What,” he whispered back, a hint of impatience in his voice.

“Slughorn’s invited Eversons to the meeting tomorrow.”

“And why, pray tell, are you choosing now to tell me this,” he hissed. Ignoring Abraxas’ quiet apology, he glanced at the subject of their conversation but she was, predictably, immersed in her note-taking and completely oblivious to the discussion taking place right behind her. He cast a contemptuous look at the back of her head.

Merlin, her hair really was awful. He at least realized that people judged you on outward appearance, and always made sure that every particle of his appearance was perfectly in place. Physical beauty was a very useful weapon, something that Eversons clearly didn’t realize (if she did, in his opinion, she wouldn’t sport that awful unruly frizz she called hair). Even when she tried to restrain her curls it was a disaster, like now with strands sticking out everywhere from the messy plait she currently wore. It was so… Disgraceful. And entirely like her.

Once again he had to tear his thoughts away from the witch. Really, he hated the hold she had over his thoughts these days. It was entirely illogical and completely frustrating.

Shifting uncomfortably in his seat he groaned and ran a hand over his face. Salazar, he was even losing sleep over it! He allowed himself to momentarily rest his head on the runes he was supposed to be translating then sat up straight and focused his attention back on Professor Signius, who was scribbling several translations on the board. He needed to get a grip.

*

The end of September brought with it a bright flush autumnal colors, cooler temperature and the inevitable roiling fog that cloaked the grounds in the morning. It was on one such morning that Hermione headed down to Herbology, arguing loudly with Thaddeus. With flushed cheeks and ankles wet from dew they stepped into the warm interior of Greenhouse Six, the open door letting in a gust of cool air.

"Shut the door quickly,” called Beery good-naturedly. “The Flitterbloom hates the cold.”

Thaddeus complied instantly and Hermione headed to her seat, pulling of her gloves

“So…” said Ivaine, a small smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. “You and Thaddeus?”

When Hermione failed to respond she looked pointedly to where the dark haired boy was conversing with the Professor and waggled her eyebrows suggestively. She burst out laughing when Hermione recoiled instantly, an expression of horrified understanding spreading across her face.

“Oh no,” she said quickly. “No, it’s not like that.”

Ivaine smirked in what Hermione thought was a highly irritating manner.

“Of course it isn’t,” she said, sceptically amused. Hermione was preparing to hiss some cutting remark back when Thaddeus plopped down in the seat next to her, instantly halting anything she had been about to say.

“Morning,” he said to no one in particular before drawing out his wand from his pocket. Hermione watched as he cast a drying Spell on his robes, frowning slightly in concentration.

It was true that she liked Thaddeus, although it wasn’t in the way Ivaine suspected. In the two weeks they’d known each other they had formed a promising relationship. A friendly one, though. Completely platonic.

No, she couldn’t envision herself dating anyone here, no matter what the other girls thought. Not when she was still puzzling over her feelings for Ron. She had now been in the past for over three months, enough time for the simmering anger she felt towards him to die down, but she sensed it wasn’t the only feeling to pass. She had harbored her secret crush for ages, only to be confused and hurt when it transpired that he didn’t share her interest. And with time she had realized that they probably wouldn’t work well together anyway. They were just too dissimilar, their interests too wildly different. They fought too often, whether it be petty squabbles or full blown grudges (like in third year when Ron had accused Crooks of eating his rat, or his irrational hostility towards her back in November). Hermione knew that these weren’t good grounds for a healthy relationship. She had accepted that they would probably be better off as friends.

“Hermione,” said Thaddeus, jolting her from her thoughts. “I heard you were going to Slughorn’s tonight?”

Hermione grimaced in distaste, ignoring the sudden interest of the people sitting at her table.

“I was invited, but that doesn’t mean I’m going,” she replied. She furrowed her nose at the memory: Slughorn had, with great pomp, asked her to attend her the upcoming Slug Club evening at the end of the last Potions class. It hadn’t escaped her notice that there had been no invitation to actually join the club itself, nor that there were decidedly few female members.

Thaddeus grinned.

“Well, if you decide to attend, we could go together.”

_Huh._

“Um, sure,” she squeaked, doing her best to ignore a certain blonde whose features had lit up in a rather manic grin.

“Cool,” said Thaddeus cheerfully, oblivious to Ivaine who was gleefully mouthing “Told you so” from behind him. “By the way, did you end up finding that list of deaths caused by Venomous Tentacula?”

“Oh, yes,” replied Hermione, relieved for the change of subject. “Actually, I have it here.”

They spent the rest of the lesson working on their project, Hermione avoiding the knowing glances Ivaine occasionally sent her way.

It was when they were walking up to the castle that it happened. Hermione was in the middle of discussing the Arithmancy assignment with Marcus (or rather, he listened as she fretted over the right answers) when a cry of “Eversons!” rang through the air. She turned, only to catch sight of a group of Slytherins making their way up to where they had halted. Malfoy, who she recognized was the one who had called her, waved cheerily when he saw the direction of her gaze.

“Go,” she muttered to Marcus. Slytherins in this time were even more uncharitable towards Muggleborns than she was used to.

“It’s fine, I’ll be fine,” she added when he didn’t move, looking unsure. “Please?”

He seemed to make up his mind.

“Be careful Hermione,” he murmured reluctantly, before jogging off to join a group of Hufflepuffs who were walking nearby.

Hermione stood still, anxiety coiling in her stomach as the Slytherins drew closer. Riddle was there, she realized with a jolt, as well as a gaunt, oddly-smudged looking boy by the name of Avery and a surly dark haired youth she didn’t know. Thaddeus was noticeably absent, as well as several of the others who normally made up the rest of what she uncharitably called the Junior Death Eater league. She normally ignored that fact, but today, standing alone in front of them, she was dangerously aware that this was Voldemort and his future followers. Even the way they were standing reflected it, with Riddle standing slightly in front, the head of the group.

 _Calm yourself Hermione_ , she thought harshly. _They can’t do anything here._

“What do you want, Malfoy,” she said as nonchalantly as she could, facing the tall, blond Slytherin who so closely resembled his grandson.

“I was wondering if I could talk to you.” She turned slowly to face Riddle, eyes narrowing.

“I didn’t ask you,” she spat, hatred lacing the words. The boys all stiffened suddenly, but Riddle didn’t react, continuing on casually as if he hadn’t heard her.

“Would you mind leaving us alone?” he said, addressing the Slytherins. Without a word they departed, some sending worried looks over their shoulder at her.

“So, Eversons.”

Hermione unconsciously gripped her wand underneath her robes as he spoke. If he noticed, he didn’t comment on it.

“I heard you were invited to Slughorn’s – ” Hermione’s mind suddenly went blank. This was _not_ what she had been expecting – “And I was wondering, well, if you would like to go with me?” He trailed off hesitantly, looking suddenly nervous. He was even _blushing_ a bit, for Merlin’s sake! Hermione didn’t believe it for one second.

“I can’t,” she said sharply. “I’m already going with someone. Sorry.”

The blush disappeared instantly. 

“Ah.”

Hermione almost snorted, but luckily managed to stop herself. The eloquent Tom Riddle, at a loss for words? The whole conversation was turning out to be by far the most surreal thing she had ever experienced.

“Can I ask who’s taking you?” he finally asked.

“Not that it’s any of your business,” she snapped, “But since you’re going to find out regardless, it’s Thaddeus.”

“Nott?” he choked out, his skin, if it was possible, turning even paler.

“Yes,” said Hermione crisply. “Now, if you don’t mind, I have Ancient Runes and I don’t particularly want to be late – ”

“Eversons, please, just wait.”

She whipped round to face him, hair flying.

“What?” she bit out impatiently. His eyes flashed in anger at her tone but as soon as it appeared it was gone. She was left wondering if she had imagined it.

“About that Potions lesson… Listen, I just wanted to apologize. I behaved inappropriately, and I’m sorry if I made you uncomfortable. I regret it.”

Hermione stared at him, surprised by the sincerity coloring his voice. _He’s a good actor, that’s all_ , warned the voice in her mind.

“That’s quite all right,” she finally replied. “But I really have to go now.”

“Why don’t we walk up together?” Riddle suggested earnestly. “We both have the same classes, don’t we? And besides, I was meaning to talk with you about that project Slughorn assigned us.”

“Thanks for the offer,” Hermione said slowly, mind whirring to conjure up an excuse. “But I have to go see Professor Dumbledore for something. Now, if you’ll excuse me – ”

And before he could say another word, she was gone, striding towards the castle. He stood there until his followers, who had been loitering out of earshot, joined him.

“Get Nott,” he snarled, barely restraining the urge to _Incendio_ everything in a twenty foot radius, including the Slytherins. “We’re having a meeting.”

 

*

 

Hermione stood in front of the mirror, lips pursed in concentration as she finished her hair, using her wand to stick the remaining strands to her head. Satisfied with the result, she turned to Ivaine, who was sitting patiently on her bed, watching.

“You look really wonderful. Thaddeus won’t know what hit him,” she teased.

“Oh hush you,” said Hermione, but she was smiling nonetheless. “You look amazing.”

And her friend did; Ivaine, always pretty, looked radiant in her rose-hued dressrobes, blonde hair set in tumbling waves down her back. At her neck she wore pearls, on her feat matching white dancing slippers. She seemed to glow in the soft light of the setting sun that streamed through the open window.

Hermione didn’t feel too bad either, wearing a pair of the dressrobes Vetusa had bought for her back in August. They were deep blue, with silver detailing around the cuffs and color. Ivaine had helped her do her hair, giving tips and assisting with the more fiddly parts. She had had straighten it, then has spent an exorbitant amount of time carefully styling it into immaculate rolls. As a finishing touch she had added several little silver clips that matched her robes. They stood out against her dark curls, glinting in the growing darkness.

A swipe of pink lipstick, borrowed from Ivaine, completed the look. It was the only part of their appearance that matched; she felt like they were complete physical opposites, Ivaine light and pretty, herself much darker. A yin to a yan.

Artemia chose that moment so step inside the dormitory, stopping short at the site of them.

“You look nice,” she said carefully. Her lips thinned when her gaze landed on Hermione’s hair but she made no further comment. “Well, enjoy yourselves. Don’t forget curfew, it would be terrible for you to get detention.” Her tone was light but Hermione sensed a tinge of bitterness beneath the words.

“We’ll be careful, don’t worry,” Hermione said with false sweetness. “Sleep well.”

Artemia nodded wordlessly as they headed out.

“What was that about?” asked Hermione as they climbed down the stairs. Ivaine looked thoughtful as she answered.

“Artemia’s rather jealous of you, I think.”

Hermione halted on the steps, taken aback.

“What? Why?”

Ivaine shook her head, smiling slightly.

“For one so clever you can be rather dim sometimes.” She sighed. “Artemia’s family lost a lot of money a few years back, and she’s not fully used to the change in her social standing. I know you don’t mean to flaunt your wealth, but –” she waved off Hermione’s squawk of indignation impatiently “ – Everything you own is new and beautiful. Then there’s the other things; you’re intelligent – no wait, scrap that, you’re bloody brilliant – you’re magically powerful, you’re related to _the_ Vetusa Delage, you’re pretty, you’re irritatingly kind to everyone, or nearly everyone, at least… Oh, and it doesn’t help that a lot of boys are interested in you.”

“Well that’s not important,” Hermione snorted. “If that’s all it is, then I’m relieved. I thought she didn’t like me because of the fact my father’s a Muggle and the rest of my family are Blood Traitors.”

Ivaine looked shocked.

“No, that would be awful!” she said, aghast.

“Well the Slytherins are like that,” replied Hermione dispassionately.

“Yes, but they’re the Slytherins,” she concurred. “And besides, they’re not _all_ like that.”

“Really?” said Hermione sceptically.

“Well there’s Tom Riddle, for one. No, I’m serious!” Hermione had made a loud sound of disbelief. “He’s always standing up for Muggleborns. I saw him dock points when someone said Mudbl– well, you know what. And last year there was a lot of trouble with the Chamber of Secrets – I’ll explain some other time, don’t worry –and, well, somebody died. But Tom found the culprit and stopped the attacks. He’s also actually really nice sometimes, I don’t know why you don’t like him. If I didn’t know better, I would say it’s because he’s supposed to be Muggleborn.”

It was lucky that at that moment Ivaine caught site of her date – an attractive Ravenclaw from the year above named Edward Falkner (invited for the large chain of shops his family owned) – because Hermione was on the verge of showing her just how much she disliked that statement. Instead she stayed silent as they made their way down to where Slughorn was hosting the evening, fuming internally.

Hermione and Thaddeus had made arrangements to meet inside, so it was alone that she ventured into the brightly decorated office, having said her goodbyes to a giggling Ivaine and Edward. There were quite a few people milling about, many of which she didn’t recognize. It wasn’t anything like that disastrous Christmas Party she had attended oh so many months ago, but there were definitely more people than she expected. With some trepidation she made her way to the drinks station, which she knew was the place to go if you were looking for someone. To her displeasure it was not Thaddeus she found there but an entirely different Slytherin. Tom Riddle, serving himself a drink and looking entirely too handsome.

“Have you seen Thaddeus?” she asked him loudly before she could convince herself not to.

He turned around, only to freeze in surprise when he saw who it was that had asked the question.

“Eversons,” he greeted, recovering slightly and raising his glass to his lips. “Care for a drink?”

“Not really,” Hermione answered, but she found herself smiling. And quickly stopped. No matter how attractive and charming he was on the outside, she wouldn’t be fooled.

“You didn’t answer my question.”

Riddle carefully set his glass down on the table, dark eyes meeting her own.

“What do I get in exchange?” he said quietly. Suddenly nervous, she gulped, but the anxiety dwindled to give place to a rapidly rising irritation.

“You can serve me a drink.”

He grinned at her in surprise, and she felt her heart stutter at the sheer beauty of him.

“Ogden’s?”

Wordlessly, she nodded.

“I didn’t know you were of age,” he said quizzically, raising a dark brow as he poured her a portion of the same liquid he was drinking himself.

“I’m not,” she challenged. He flashed a grin again, handing her the glass.

“Neither am I.”

They drank in silence. Hermione thrilled at the searing heat of the firewhiskey traveling down her throat and into her stomach. It set her very nerves ablaze.

“So,” she said as soon as she had downed the alcohol. “Where’s Thaddeus?”

Riddle seemed to hesitate a second before answering.

“He fell ill unexpectedly. I’m sorry.”

Hermione shook her head, savoring the last of the warmth from her drink. She felt suddenly very floaty.

“Don’t be. Do you think Madam Rossignol will allow visitors?”

“No, I don’t think so, not at this time. You’ve been to the Hospital Wing before?”

“Yes, once or twice.”

“Tom!” Slughorn’s booming voice sounded from across the room and she watched the top of his blonde head make it’s way through a cluster of chattering students.

“Tom, m’boy, it’s wonderful to see you here.”

“Wonderful to be here, sir,” Riddle said quickly.

“Not at all, not all…” he beamed at him. “Ah, and who is your lovely friend here?” he said, turning to Hermione. “But if it isn’t the lovely Miss Eversons! Goodness, I almost didn’t recognize you! You look splendid my dear, simply splendid.”

Hermione nodded politely, unsure of how to respond.

“Well come, both of you, there’s somebody I’d like you to meet,” announced Slughorn briskly. “An old friend of mine, you might have heard of him.” He waved over to where a small man with a handlebar moustache was standing, looking rather mournful.

“Albert! Come here, there are some people I’d like you to meet.”

“This here is Albert Caldder, an associate of mine who currently authors for _The Practical Potioneer_. You might know him better as the inventor of the modern Potions Kit! Albert, these are the two students I was talking about, Mr Tom Riddle and Miss Hermione Eversons.”

“Nice to meet you,” said Hermione cordially, shaking his hand. She recognized the name; it was on one of the textbooks she had used back in first year, but she didn’t dare mention it for fear that it hadn’t even been written yet.

Tom introduced himself as well, courteous as ever. Mr Caldder was a very quiet man and she felt sympathy for him as Slughorn tried to cajole him into talking about his acheivements. Now and again she would catch Riddle’s eye and he would smile his disarming grin, sharing a quiet joke with her at their Professor’s expense. Alarmingly enough, she was returning his smiles quite freely now, her usual dislike of him worryingly absent.

 _Blame it on the firewhiskey_ , she thought dizzily. Her mind felt foggy and it was worsening with every minute she stood there. Finally she had to excuse herself, making her way out the exit to the nearest girl’s toilets.

She splashed water on her face, hoping it would help clear her head. The dizziness lessened a bit, and she breathed heavily as she leant against the sink, trying to clear her jumbled thoughts.

 _Merlin, I didn’t drink_ that _much,_ _did I?_

Hermione felt relatively more composed as she stepped outside of the room, only to be cut short when she saw who was waiting there.

“Riddle,” she said uncertainly. “What are you doing here?”

“I came to see if you were alright,” he replied, frowning slightly in what appeared to be consternation. “Are you okay?”

“I– I’m fine,” she stammered. “Embarrassingly enough, I think I might have drunken too much.”

She gave a light laugh but he didn’t seem to share her amusement.

“Eversons,” he began. But she never got to hear what he was about to say, because at that moment there was a shrill shriek of “Hermione!” and they both turned to see a very pink-in-the-face Ivaine, pulling a rather mortified looking Edward by the hand.

“There you are!” she cried dramatically, throwing her hands up in the air. “We were looking for you!”

To Hermione’s surprise she threw her arms around her waist, pulling her into a tight hug.

“We have to go,” she said, slurring slightly. “We don’t wanna miss curfew.”

Edward cleared his throat loudly behind her.

“Sorry about this,” he muttered to them both, embarrassment clear on his face. Hermione noticed that Riddle wore an expression of badly-concealed annoyance, and she dimly wondered why. The fogginess was returning.

“It’s fine,” she said, carefully extracting herself from Ivaine’s hold. “She’s right, anyway. We should get going.”

She smiled apologetically at Riddle, who continued to look unhappy.

“I’ll see you in class.”

He didn’t answer, watching them as they shuffled down the corridor, half carrying, half dragging Ivaine. His anger rose as they disappeared round the corner and he quickly stalked off in the opposite direction, determined to find an empty classroom where he could vent his frustration undisturbed.


	5. Friendly Encounters

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I went back and edited the first chapter, so feel free to go back and read if you haven’t already ;)  
> In all seriousness though, why is it that your work is always so cringe inducing when you look back on it? Sigh.  
> Writing’s a pain when you’re indecisive.  
> As always, thank you for the comments and kudos!

The first thing she was aware of was the light, bright to the point of being painful even behind her closed eyelids. She grabbed her pillow and pulled it over her head with a stifled groan.

_Sweet Merlin her head hurt._

"Hermione."

Somebody was shaking her. She wanted them to stop. Why wouldn’t they stop?

"Hermi-o-nee."

_Why couldn’t they just go away?_

"Hermione!"

"Do you think she’s awake?"

To her relief, the voices retreated for a second. Resigned to the fact that she was going to have to get up, Hermione tried to open her eyes. And failed.

_Why did she feel so terrible?_

Memories from the night before surfaced, swirling in her mind at random. Slughorn laughing uproariously at something she had said. The clink of glasses and quiet conversation. Her blurred reflection as she stared into the dirty mirror of the girl’s toilet. Someone leaning against the wall, waiting, when she stepped outside.

A pair of dark eyes that bored into her own.

The pillow was suddenly tugged away, the brightness making her wince. She cracked her eyes open but all she could see was dancing black spots.

The first thing she saw once her vision had cleared were the two heads of Ivaine and Charlie, a tall earnest redhead who she shared a room with, peering down at her.

"Well, she’s awake," said the latter in a cheerful tone, and Hermione watched blearily as her head disappeared from view.

"Get up lazybones," murmured Ivaine. "I’ve got some Sober-up if you need it. Which, by the look of things, you do." Hermione grumbled something unintelligible in answer and tried to sit up. Her vision instantly darkened and she slumped against the headboard. A cold pair of fingers pressed against her temple, causing her to jerk away in surprise.

"Morgana, you’re burning up! How much did you drink last night?"

Hermione winced at the loudness of her tone.

"Only one glass," she rasped. Her mind still felt oppressively fuzzy.

"You lightweight."

Hermione smiled weakly as she felt a cup being pressed into her hand.

"Drink up."

She did as she was told, shuddering at the bitter taste and the iciness of the liquid traveling down her throat. But the relief she expected didn’t come.

"Do you have anything else?" she croaked. Ivaine frowned in confusion.

"That’s funny, it always works for me," she muttered, summoning a bottle from her trunk. The liquid she poured out was much more viscous than the last potion.

"This should do it."

Hermione obediently accepted the glass and gulped down the unappetizing potion. This time round she felt her mind clear almost instantly.

"Better?" smirked Ivaine, and she nodded wordlessly in response, setting down the empty cup on the duvet.

"What time is it?" she asked Ivaine, who the had started on pulling a comb through her enviably straight hair.

"It’s only half-eight," she said, untangling a particularly stubborn knot with her fingers. "The others went down to breakfast ages ago, and Charlie was nice enough to wake me before she left. I had the most terrible hangover," she admitted, expression rather sheepish. "I’m quite relieved actually, that only you and Edward saw me like that." Hermione didn’t have the heart to correct her. "Lucky that there were some potions on hand, especially for you."

"What I had was no hangover," muttered Hermione darkly. "At least, not in the classical sens of the word; there is no way one glass of firewhiskey did that to me."

Ivaine frowned in agreement.

"You’re sure that’s all you had?"

"Positive."

Her thoughts travelled back to the night before; he had offered her a drink, she had accepted. There had been no reason to suspect anything was amiss, other than the fact it was him serving her.  
Hermione hadn’t seen him add anything to her drink, but that did not mean he hadn’t.

She concentrated on the memory; after finishing the whiskey, she had experienced a delightful floaty sensation, something that she had put down to the alcohol. But was it possible it was something else, perhaps some form of cheering concoction? Hermione had definitely felt more at ease around him after, her barriers crashing down around her ears.

Then after, when that terrible dizziness had driven her to the bathroom, he had been waiting outside. Surely that wasn’t normal behavior? She’d only been gone for a few minutes by then, nothing for anyone to suspect something was amiss…

Or was she jumping to conclusions? He could have noticed her behavior and rightfully assumed she was troubled by something, coming to her aid. But then why had the first hangover cure not worked on her, yet the second did?

"Could you hand me the remedy bottles?" she asked Ivaine, who immediately complied, reaching into her trunk to pull out both vials.

"Catch," she said, throwing them on Hermione’s bed.

Hermione picked up the smaller of the two, which was filled with the clear, grey-tinged liquid she remembered from the first remedy. She had to squint to make out the list of contents, scrawled in a barely-legible faded black ink denoted the great age of the potion.

It was a fairly standard hangover cure, intended for consumption on the morning after ingesting large quantities of alcohol. She picked up the second vial for inspection, which was quite a bit larger and made of a murky green glass.

"Goodness," she breathed, scanning the long list of names clearly printed on the side, and frowning in alarm the whole time. Combining potions was a delicate business; mixtures that weren’t thought out properly could be extremely volatile. In the best-case scenario, the potions would cancel each other out. In the worst, the effects could be catastrophic; she had once heard of an experimental brew that had turned its unfortunate drinker into a puddle.

However, since she hadn’t yet turned orange or reacted badly in any other way it probably meant that this particular concoction was tried and tested.

Her breath hitched slightly when she caught sight of what she was looking for; squished between a description of the advantageous use of Vitamix and a warning to the allergies the potion may trigger was a scrawled note; THIS MIXTURE CONTAINS WIGGENWELD.

Wiggenweld was an antidote to many common types of sleep potions, as well as some more uncommon forms such as the Draught of Living Death. If Hermione had been drugged, with, say, a largeish dose of Drowsiness Draught, it would have been fully capable of inducing that unpleasant haze she had experienced and would even explain the side-effects she was feeling, since Sleeping Potions had a reputation of hangover-like, morning-after unpleasantness (which only Wiggenweld was effective against).  
Hermione went cold at the implications, but her horror was quickly replaced by a mounting outrage. Somebody – and she had a good idea who – had drugged her drink with sleep potion, along with something else, most probably an Elixir to Induce Euphoria. Their plan had worked; she had been put at ease first, and then had slowly succumbed to the mind-numbing effects of the sleep potion.

She, the great Hermione Granger, had been roofied.

Her knuckles turned white where they gripped the bottle as a great wave of fury washed over her, sending magic sparking out of her hair. Mingled with the anger was bitterness that he had succeeded, shame that the "constant vigilance" had been for nothing. He had done nothing she hadn’t expected and yet it had only been out of sheer luck that she had escaped unscathed, all thanks to Ivaine’s appearance. Moody would be disappointed in her. She was disappointed in herself. She would make sure it never happened again. Tom Riddle, despite the convincing façade he put up, had proven to be the snake she had thought him to be.  
And he would have hell to pay for what he had done.

*

Thaddeus was not looking good at all. He looked, in fact, as if he was sick, but Hermione doubted this was the truth. It would be just too convenient for her date to fall ill just as Riddle displayed his true colors.

Worry for him, for what had been done to him, overwhelmed her when she saw him in Charms that morning, looking pale and drawn as he stared down at his notes. He didn’t look her way once, didn’t acknowledge her presence in any other way than a slight stiffening in his seat when she passed. It was only after class that she got the opportunity to talk to him, and even then he didn’t meet her eye. Despite the fact that they normally walked down to Herbology together, she had had to run to catch up with him.

"Thaddeus, what’s wrong?" she had panted, face flushed. He glanced at her quickly, refusing to meet her eye.

"Nothing’s wrong." His answer was curt, insincere in the fullest and held a tinge of acidity that made her draw back in surprise.

"What did he do to you?" she hissed, and he had stared at her, his turn to be surprised.

"I don’t know what you’re talking about," he had replied, but he sounded suddenly tired.

"Don’t lie to me." Hermione was glaring at him, but the concern in her tone was undeniable. There had been no answer. Instead, he had accelerated and Hermione had let him go, determined to continue the conversation in class.

But that had not happened. When she entered Greenhouse Six, there had been no dark-haired, bespectacled Slytherin sitting at her table, nor anywhere else. A whispered question to Ivaine had provided her with an answer.

"Oh, he left at the start of class," she had muttered, eyebrows raised. "He went up to the hospital wing with Riddle, told Beery he was feeling unwell."

The lesson passed slower than usual without Thaddeus’s wry comments and surprised laughter by her side. When Beery announced that they were free to go, she didn’t join the rest of the class heading up to the Great Hall for lunch, instead striding on ahead to the Hospital Wing.

He was sitting on a bed in the furthest corner from the door, leaning against the dark wooden headboard while the matron, a tall, imposing woman in her fifties, fussed over him. When he saw Hermione he twitched slightly and the woman turned around, face pinched in displeasure.

"No visitors before one o’clock," she called.

"Please Madam, I’ll be very quick."

Madam Rossignol, for that was the name the matron, sighed impatiently at the resolute expression Hermione’s face.

"One minute," she warned, before hurrying off to her office, bottles clutched in her arms.

"Thaddeus."

He didn’t look up when she sat down next to him on the bed, but sighed unhappily and adjusted his spectacles.

"Hermione…" He swallowed. "Look, this is going to sound odd but we can’t… We can’t be friends anymore. I’m sorry, but it’s, strangely enough, for the best."

Hermione stared at him, speechless.

"Circe, what did he do to you?" she finally said, fighting hard to keep the grief from her voice. "If you give in to him, then you lose. We lose."

"I’m sorry," whispered Thaddeus, and the regret behind the words was sincere. "I can’t. Tom…"

His eyes widened in sudden panic and he clamped his mouth shut, but Hermione had heard enough. She inhaled sharply, her expression growing stormier with every second.

"So I was right," she mused, her tone dangerously controlled.

"Thaddeus, please." She was suddenly pleading, but he couldn’t meet her gaze.

"I just can’t… Forgive me." Hermione nodded sadly.

"Alright," she murmured, taking his hand and squeezing it once, hard. "But I want you to know I’m not giving up."

"I should go," she added quietly, catching site of Madam Rossignol who was advancing towards them, a threatening look on her face. She stood up, trying to steady the emotions that threatened to overwhelm her.

"Bye," she choked out, squeezing her eyes shut to stop the tears from falling.

"Bye," replied Thaddeus miserably. She had just steeled herself enough to leave when he spoke again. "Hermione… Please, be careful. Of him. He’s dangerous, more than you know."

Hermione bit her lip at the warning and walked off, unable to look back. As soon as she had cleared the doors she broke down, running blindly down the hall, sobs racking her body.

It was just so unfair! She had been thrown back in the past with no obvious means of getting back to all she knew, to a time where the world was ravaged by war, when Muggleborn intolerance was at its highest in centuries, and there was bloody Voldemort at school with her!

She had tried, she had made the best of a bad situation, but this was just too much. Having lost Ron and Harry, she had now lost Thaddeus as well, one of her two closest friends. Tears ran down her face but she didn’t try to wipe them away. Merlin, it was all so hopeless!

"Eversons?" The call came from behind, and she spun around, fearing the worse from the moment she heard that familiar, smooth, oh-so-detested voice.

He was standing there, expression unreadable, immaculate as always in his green trimmed robes, prefect badge gleaming on his chest. She felt a flame of anger rear up like a serpent inside her and before she knew what she was doing she had drawn her wand and was pointing it straight at him.

"You!" she shrieked, her control slipping entirely. He stared at her in shock as a jet of red light burst from her wand, narrowly missing him as it sailed past to hit a suit of armor instead. The deafening crash as it fell to the ground seemed to shake the walls, but Hermione was too far gone to care, slashing another hex at Riddle. This time, though, he had his wand out, and his shield up moments before the spell hit him. But before the duel could progress any further, a door burst open at the end of the corridor.

"What the hell is going on here?!" Hermione looked up, dazed, to see a large, blonde boy who looked intensely familiar. It took her a second to realize it was Cillian, another to notice the red Head Boy badge attached to his robes. Riddle watched him warily, making no move to remove the shield.

"McLaggen," he greeted, gaze flitting back to Hermione every few seconds. Self-consciously, she wiped away the remaining tears from her face and took a deep, steadying breath.

"I’m sorry Cillian," she said, false guilt tingeing her apology. "Our argument got a bit out of hand, but Merlin knows how stubborn Tom can be." She accompanied the statement with a light, forced laugh. "I was sure that the armor would be protected from stray curses, he insisted I was wrong, and well, stupidly, I put my theory to the test." She smiled ruefully, and to her relief, Cillian looked suitably amused, buying into the lie instantly. It left a bitter taste in her mouth, which she ignored.

"Well, I guess I can let you off this one time," he conceded. "Just make sure you put everything back in place or Pringle will be after my blood."

"Thanks, I owe you one," said Hermione sincerely. "Oh, and Cillian," she called as he walked away. "Um, it’s a bit late, but congratulations on making Head Boy!"

He flashed a grin at her and promptly disappeared through a tapestry. Hermione tensed, finally remembering who she had just been left alone with. But just at that moment, a large group fourth years walked into the corridor, chattering loudly and effectively preventing whatever had been about to happen from happening.

She took the opportunity to hurry off and a shiver traveled down the length of her spine as she felt those familiar dark eyes watch her leave.

*

After dinner she made her way up to the fourth floor for her meeting with Dumbledore. It wasn’t the first of these sessions, but there was still a ball of anxiety in her stomach as she lifted a hand to knock on the office door. It swung open instantly.

"Miss Granger." Her heart flooded with warmth at the use of her name. Her real name, the name that announced to the world that she was Muggleborn, the name that tied her back to her parents, her time. It was wonderful to hear it again.

"Good evening," he greeted without looking up. He was sitting behind his desk, head bowed over a stack of parchment, quill in hand. "Come in and take a seat."

Hermione did as bid, silently settling in one of the two comfortable armchairs across from Dumbledore. The room was very similar to the Headmaster’s office she had known back in the 90s, those spindly, interesting objects covering every available surface, making odd noises or emitting differently-colored steam. Fawkes was sitting on his perch next to the window, looking rather bedraggled despite his beautiful red and gold plumage. Hermione suspected that it was getting near his time and watched in interest as he ruffled his feathers with a sharp beak, beady black eyes never leaving hers. She remembered the occasion of their first rendezvous when Dumbledore had introduced him.

"This is Fawkes," he had said. And then, smiling at her conspicuous lack of reaction, "But you already know that."

Back in the present, the man in question sighed quietly and pushed the essay he was correcting away.

"So, if I remember correctly, last time we talked you were still researching the portal theory," he said, pressing his fingers together in a steeple. "Where did that lead you?"

"Well, I have to disagree with Ballucia," she started nervously. She couldn’t shake the feeling that she was being tested. "There’s just not enough evidence to support his claims. It sounds like a load of tosh, at least from a more... logical point. The idea that there are just random enchanted doors scattered around the Earth, ready to transport you wherever and whenever you need, well… Well frankly, and no offense sir, it’s beyond ridiculous."

"So you don’t believe his evidence?" queried Dumbledore, smiling benignly. Hermione scoffed.

"His ‘evidence’, as you put it, comes from fairy tales, stuff made up to entertain children. So no, Professor, I don’t believe it."

"Ah," said Dumbledore, eyes twinkling. "But is there not truth in all stories? Are there not real events behind many a poem and myth? Take Beedle, for instance; did a warlock not famously devise a way to isolate his beating heart from his body, revolutionising Body Magic for evermore? Or, if you prefer, that popular Muggle fairy tale Snow White, which is believed to be based on a real person, a Bavarian noblewoman named Margaret von Waldeck?"

"Yes, but enchanted doors?" repeated Hermione, disbelief colouring her tone.

Dumbledore surveyed her gravely from over his fingers.

"In a world of magic, anything is possible," he answered in an undertone. Hermione had to bite back her huff of impatience.

"Okay, let’s imagine the doors are real," she conceded. "But where would we even start our search?"

"The answer is simple. We read the stories." Hermione stared at him in disbelief. 

“It was never meant to be easy," he said gently. "I understand that you wish to get back home as soon as possible, and it is my firm belief that we will succeed." The smile he wore was encouraging but she couldn't bring herself to be reassured. "But tell me, Miss Granger, is everything alright?"

To her shame, she once again felt tears prick her eyes at the genuine concern in his voice. Damn Riddle and his ability to weaken her mental state! The expression of sympathy on Dumbledore’s face deepened, and Hermione hurriedly brushed the betraying liquid away with a knuckle.

"Lemon drop?" Slightly taken aback, she accepted a small yellow pastille from the tin he had seemingly summoned from

nowhere and popped it into her mouth. The tangy sugar instantly made her feel better.

"Thank you, sir," she said quietly.

Dumbledore didn’t ask any more questions for a while and instead they talked about Hermione’s time at Hogwarts, about the information Vetusa delivered in her regular letters, about time theory, about interesting publications in magical news.

At Dumbledore’s casual mention of an article of his in  Transfiguration Today , a sudden thought struck her.

"But sir," she exclaimed, "Did I tell you that Professor Slughorn asked me to write something for the Practical Potioneer ."

Dumbledore’s bushy eyebrows shot up in surprise.

"Is that so," he murmurred, straightening slightly in his seat. "And when did this happen?"

"At the beginning of term," said Hermione. "It’s a wonderful opportunity, but I’m not sure I can. In any case, Riddle’s more than willing to do it," she added after a moment’s reflection.

"Tom Riddle?" said Dumbledore sharply, and Hermione suddenly remembered his famed dislike of the young Lord Voldemort.

"Yes sir," she said innocently. "Professor Slughorn asked us to write the article together." Dumbledore frowned slightly, at the bitterness in her tone.

"You don’t like Tom." It was more of an observation than a question.

"Neither do you, sir," she retorted. "And anyway, I have my reasons."

He looked at her pensively, and for a second she worried that he was going to reprimand her for her sudden rudeness.

"Be careful of Tom," he finally said, neither denying or confirming what she had accused him of. "Unpleasant things have a way of happening to those that... disagree with him."

"Why do you call him Tom?" The question had escaped her lips before she could stop it, but once again Dumbledore didn’t react, except for a slight tightening around his mouth.

"Because that is his name." he said simply. "Well, my dear Miss Granger, I believe that marks the end of today’s session. As usual, I will send an owl to schedule the next one. Till next time."

Hermione nodded and rose from her seat.

"Thank you, Professor. Till next time."

Dumbledore stared at the closed door for some time after she had left. Then he unhurriedly picked up his quill and resumed grading the essays.

"Tom Riddle," he chuckled quietly to himself, shaking his head in disbelief.

*

The best time to go to the Library, in Hermione’s opinion, was unquestionably 8 o’clock in the evening. It wasn’t because of the magic of the scene, the last rays of the setting sun illuminating the polished dark panels of the bookshelves, the gaslamps creating scattered golden islands of comfort, the regal hush against her skin.

It wasn’t because of the increased availability of the librarian, a wizened little wizard who most people called "Alf", although she doubted that this was his given name.

No, the reason that 8 o’clock was her favorite time was because it finally marked curfew for the younger students.

Unfortunately, there were still sixteen minutes to go to the long awaited hour, and a group of third year Hufflepuffs were giggling loudly in the neighbouring aisle. Hermione glared at them, abandoning her through the Restricted Section. Honestly, where were the Prefects in this school?

Dippet had shown terrible judgement choosing them; in Ravenclaw, Charlie had been given the badge, despite it being common knowledge that she skived off patrol to go drinking with the Gryffindors, where she was joined by at least on one of the prefects from the house. Then there was that absolute cow, Jane Shafiq of Slytherin, who was at her most merciful when she ignored younger students, and her least when she made ample use of her sharp tongue and her wide repertoire of offensive spells. Which was unfortunately the vast majority of the time. Hermione felt pity for the male Hufflepuff prefect in her year, the familiarly-named Macmillan who spent most of his time clearing up the wreckage left in Shafiq's wake (the sense of pity only increased when it was revealed that the two were secretly dating). 

As for the rest, they did a passable job, save of course Tom Riddle, who when he wasn't presenting his perfect Golden-Boy façade to the world spent his time unleashing immense, Muggle-born killing basilisks on the school. A rather unfortunate past time, she thought.

Hermione sent one last cold look at the Hufflepuffs and turned to face the figure who was striding down the corridor in her direction. It was Cillian, looking as mischievous as ever, Head Boy badge gleaming and wheat-blonde hair bouncing with every step.

"Hello," she greeted, discretely slipping the book she wanted into her bag. Unfortunately, it wasn't discrete enough to escape his notice.

"Fancy seeing you here, Miss Eversons," he said, waggling his eyebrows. "I don't have to ask if you have a permission slip, do I?"

"Of course not," replied Hermione crisply. "Dumbledore signed mine. And since when do you know my family name, McLaggen?"

"Oh, everyone's heard of the brilliant Miss Hermione Eversons, 'niece of the great Vetusa Delage, sorceress of international repute'."

He was mimicking Dippet's introduction of her back at the start of year feast, and Hermione reddened.

"So you heard that," she muttered. Cillian snorted derisively.

"The whole bloody school heard it. How come you didn't tell me?"

"How come you didn't tell me about being Head Boy," she shot back. Despite the snappiness of the retort, he grinned.

"Woah there, Tiger," he teased, and she bristled slightly at the moniker. "I was living in denial," he sighed dramatically. "And plus, I didn't want to embarrass you more. You'd already fallen onto our Head Girl by then." He grinned at the memory.

"Marelyn's Head Girl?" squeaked Hermione.

"Sure," he replied tentatively. "You sat in the Heads Compartment."

"The Head's Compartment?" Impossibly, her voice had risen another octave,

"Um, yes," he smiled. "It's fine though, I thought the Prefects had sent you, to be honest. Anyway, what in the world does 'Time Travel'" he read, peering at a book behind her, "have to do with Transfiguration."

"Just a side project of mine," she lied quickly. "What?" she challenged, catching site of his grimace.

"You Ravenclaws," he murmured. Hermione was suddenly aware that his expression had changed so that it looked uncomfortably too similar to the one his grandson had worn at Slughorn's party fifty years in future.

"Have you heard of Hogsmeade week–" He was cut off by a sudden loud outbreak of giggling, which was followed by equally indiscreet shushing. Hermione looked over to see the group of Hufflepuffs peering at them through the shelves, and they squealed and giggled anew when they saw the direction of her gaze.

"Damn those Puffs," huffed Cillian and he strode off, muttering something that Hermione thought sounded suspiciously like "Why did you take the badge" over and over. She walked out of the library, smiling slightly and feeling for the first time that day a semblance of happiness.

It didn’t last long.

A wrong turn led her down to the underground levels, down to a part if the dungeons she was unfamiliar with. Shivering slightly in her light summer robes, wand shining with her  _'Lumos'_ , she was in the middle of retracing her steps when she heard voices.

As she turned a corner she caught site of two students, arguing furiously. A shudder of anxiety crawled along her spine when she saw that they both had their wands out.

One of them lifted his head and Hermione froze, panic coiling in her stomach.

_Merlin, what did I do to deserve this?_

Tom Riddle stood in the corridor, wand drawn and pointing straight at her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh no.  
> Poor Hermione, running into Riddle AGAIN.  
> (insert devious chuckling)  
> Such terrible luck, don’t you think?


	6. I am sorry

So...

This fic unfortunately went somewhere I did not want it to go, to a place where I no longer wanted to write, and that is an obstacle very hard to surmount.

So while this work is on a, for the moment, undefined hiatus, I have started another fic where I re-hash some of the ideas found here.

Hopefully it will be better. So if you enjoyed this story, feel free to check out my other Tomione, [The Dark Lord](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20966750/chapters/49852418) 

 

I’m sorry.

Thank you soo much for all the people who kudosed and commented – I wish you all much love.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!  
> The universe this fic takes place in belongs to the one and only J.K.Rowling, and thus all credit goes to her.


End file.
